


Never Going to Live This Down

by comatosc



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Also lowkey sugar daddy Shiro ngl, And an alcoholic, And this time with FEELING, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Fluff, I don't think there'll be smut, Lance has a shitty car that he loves to death, Lance is Allura's #1 fan!!!!, Lance used to be a pothead, M/M, Minor Violence, Pizza Boy Lance, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prosthesis Professor Takashi Shirogane, Set in San Francisco bc I'm Trash, So many emotions, That might change tho don't trust me, The chauffeur AU no one wanted, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8243605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comatosc/pseuds/comatosc
Summary: So there's this guy named Lance that drives for a living and somehow ends up driving into someone else's car. It's a really expensive. Lance is totally fucked.There's no punchline.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'd like to give you a new opportunity, Lance."

His lack of caffeine, dwindling hours of sleep, and his newly acquired license all made him miserable.  
  
  
Lance played idly with his keys while exiting his apartment, jaw stretching in an imminent yawn, his vision swaying with his body as he hobbled towards his car. It was old, dingy, with chipped paint and spare parts galore. And Lance adored her. Climbing into his car renewed that feeling, the inside remained the same since he first bought it in high school. Young, cherry-cheeked, not sure when he'd be able to get behind the wheel but excited for it regardless.  
  
  
And _boy_ did he regret it now.  
  
  
He left the parking lot in record time. It was initially a small place and the streets were virtually empty so early in the morning. He drove by a row of monolithic trees, buildings brimming with ghosts, paved sidewalks with cobweb cracks in them. His dashboard displayed 5:34 am and a glance was all it took for the worst and best moment of his life to occur.   


Gratification delayed, Lance’s poorly stifled shriek grating his vocal cords was the only indication that he was a living, breathing man- not the whisper of a breeze breaching the silence, but a screaming _person_ abruptly ripped out of a sleep-induced reverie. His whole body jerked forward and he came to a hard stop as the hood of the parked car he suddenly ran into crumpled into a visible M. It looked sleek. Expensive.  
  
  
First college debt, and now he'd have to get on his hands in knees to apologize to a stranger he hadn't met yet but had surely ruined the day of. Lance sagged into his wheel and pat his dashboard. Sullenly, he asked his car what to do. When she didn't respond, he rooted through his glove box until he uncovered the notepad he purchased weeks ago and had filled with flimsy doodles and a pen with so little ink he doubted he'd get through with writing any more than a few words. He tried anyways, going over a clean sheet of paper repeatedly until he formed a wobbly S.   
  
  
He climbed out of his car after a solid ten minutes of work, some bits of his letters missing, and his sweatshirt combating weakly against the wind that battered his frame. He shivered but didn’t think chilly mornings were that bad, Lance could easily humor himself with huffy breaths that smoked in contact with the air. He shuffled towards the ruined car.  
  
  
The charcoal model now had a papery hood, each crinkle evident in the paint, a streak of chrome blemishing the formerly untouched side. That part was caused by Lance and _his_ vehicle. He nursed another ill-timed pang of guilt and shuddered at the thought of whatever consequences were quickly on their way, hoping he wouldn’t get fired for being tardy.  


Tending the accident seemed like a normal first priority for someone to have, he was sure his employment would still be intact, so he straightened the scraggly paper over his palm and folded his front over the hood. He was about to tuck the sheet into the front windshield when footsteps approached and he felt his whole body go tense. Mechanically, he turned to face the source of his anxiety, expression fraying. In hindsight, he should have expected the grimace and the accusatory glare he received in return.  


But damn was he getting hot under the collar.  


Lance was suddenly grateful, so grateful, that he had done the unnecessary and dumb thing because this eyeful was enough to make up for the sleepless nights and long shifts and holed jeans. The stranger had a tuft of silver hanging over his brow, the rest of his hair dark and mostly shaved, eyes pointed and probably discerning Lance's stiff behavior. His chest was clad in a fitting suit, thumbs in his pockets, a pricey watch adorning his wrist.  


Lance's rural upbringing did not prepare him for his encounter with the most well-dressed and handsomely angry man he'd ever met.  


"Hey," he shuffled his hands and the note behind his back, "there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this but let me first say that I'm really, _really_ sorry. It wasn’t on purpose." The man tilted his head, then nodded his chin.  


"Okay. I'm listening."  


So lance explained. Apologized again. Moved animatedly with his hands and facial expressions and his gaze slid nervously off of the pristine edges of Mr. Million Dollar’s suit, an invisible tickle inside of him reminding him that he’d either repent now or spend the rest of his life making up for it through delivering pizza boxes. The guilt was practically eating him alive now that the excuses spilled over his tongue, but the last thing he expected was to be interrupted by startlingly warm laughter.  
  
  
Mr. Million Dollar was practically doubled over and in giggles, clutching his stomach and grey-blue tie falling into a limp bridge, a swing of knotted silk facing the ground, newly-formed wrinkles appearing at the corners of his suit. The sight was jarring, so much more so than any jumpscare or particularly large tip, and his throat ran drier than a desert. When he stood straight again his clothing fell miraculously back into place and he wiped a faux tear from his eye.  
  
  
Lance swallowed.  
  
  
“I forgive you,” he said, “accidents happen all the time.” But boy was this a happy one, Lance thought, wringing his fingers and bobbing his head in agreement, “but now I’m in a bit of a fix,” oh no, oh _no_ , “I have to be somewhere in fifteen minutes and now I don’t have a car.” This side of town had cleaner concrete and Mr. Million Dollar stepped tidily over the indents of each carefully crafted tile, his grin radiating the same compassion his laugh had. Somehow Lance still worried about money, about deceiving appearances and about devilishly handsome men, “So I forgive you- _as long as you’ll be my chauffeur_ .”  
  
  
The angry, tight feeling in Lance’s chest quickly dissipated. He’d expected some form of extortion or whatever, not that Mr. Million Dollar would be in the wrong considering his inattention driving them right into this whole mess, but he doubted a measly $20 tip from a box he delivered late last night would cover damages. He swallowed the golf ball sized lump in his throat and moved his fingers again, smoothing them over his front pockets and eventually burrowing them there.  
  
  
The wind came and went and Lance shivered.  
  
  
“Okay,” he easily agreed, “I can do that.” He tossed his keys up from his palm, showing them off, uncertain slanted lips forming an eager grin, “Where are we heading?”  
  
  
“Just outside of the Fillmore district, a few blocks away from City Hall. ”  
  
  
Lance rolled his tongue in his mouth, tasting the very _obvious_ question on his tongue before he said it. He probably shouldn’t have been asking anything with his hand readily opening the passenger door and all, but he was _curious_ .  
  
  
“Why there?”  


“To work, of course. 100 Van Ness is rented by my company.”  
  
  
“And what company is that?” Lance fished his phone from between the seats and opened google maps. He typed the address as fast as he’d said it.  
  
  
“Altean Prosthetics and orthotics. The first three floors serve as a clinic and offices are held further up. The very top floors are residential, though.”  
  
  
“Wait, _what._ ”  
  
  
Lance stood frozen bent at the waist, half inside of his car, openly ogling the guy who apparently worked at the most practical business that had been founded in the past five years, and definitely the most successful through his smudged windshield. If he recalled correctly, they were the kind of guys that had 3D printers and state of the art technology, which explained the very deft mechanics of Mr. Million Dollar’s prosthetic hand- that he was just now noticing.  
  
  
He’d seen them on the news, like a _dozen_ times in the past week.  
  
  
Woah.  
  
  
“So are you a doctor or something? A scientist?” He slowly lifted himself up, palms waxy. He couldn’t entirely fathom why he was so nervous now, but it probably had something to do with slowly, surely, recognizing the face of the person he’d just totaled the car of. He was a professor of something. He’d been on TV.  
  
  
Lance had listened to him drone on about amazing advancements in prosthesis construction over a box of stale pizza.  
  
  
  
“A prosthetic designer, an expert on biomechatronics, and _former_ architect,” he gently corrected Lance and scratched the shadow on his chin, “Professor Takashi Shirogane. Just Shiro is fine.”  
  
Instead of air, Lance felt like he was inhaling fire. He walked around the front of his car and got into the driver's seat. With the door still open, he spoke up.  
  
  
“And I’m Lance Mcclain, a very tired and very broke pizza delivery boy. We going or what? Didn’t you say you had to be somewhere?”  
  
  
“That, I did.” He got into the car.  
  
  
And Lance drove.  
  


* * *

  
  
Not very safely.  
  
  
Shiro had braced his hand between the seats, opposite elbow finding heavy leverage on the door and stormy irises practically bugging out of his head. Had the expression been any more comical, Lance would have laughed. But his hands were firmly planted on the steering wheel, gaze occasionally averting from the road to his phone when it alerted him of a turn he’d need to make.  
  
  
“You’re a very,” the car jerked. Probably a pothole, “ _assertive_ driver.”  
  
  
It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.  
  
  
“Well, thank you,” Lance cooed, car lurching a second time at a too-hard stop. He really needed new breaks. Hunk never let him drive while he was behind the wheel, and Pidge straight up refused to be anywhere near him when he had car keys. The whole thing was silly really, Lance was a great driver, but everyone else seemed to think otherwise. Sometimes he wished he could have a bird's eye view on these things.  
  
  
But now they were three minutes away from their destination, no conversation topics in, and all he could think about was how he was going to beg for his job back because he had a lot of late mornings and he was so, _so_ screwed. He flexed his fingers on the wheel.  
  
  
“Something wrong?” Lance’s head snapped in Shiro’s direction and he briefly considering spilling his predicament, then remembered that _he_ was in one of his own. He swallowed the words.  
  
  
“Nothing. Still not over the fact you’re such an accomplished figurehead, though. Out of all the people I could have run into…” Shiro nudged him with his arm, losing one of his anchors to Lance’s reckless driving, but seemingly unaffected.  
  
  
“I’m still human. An entirely too glorified one, but what can you do? Media is always all over significant developments in _anything_ . This time, it just happened to be about APO.”  
  
  
“You make a fine point, Shirogane.” Lance pulled up to an empty curb and his car sputtered poignantly at his keys, twisting in the ignition. The engine went silent and Lance bumped an idle knuckle against his dashboard, “don’t need to thank me for the ride. I kind of _really_ owed you. And it was kind of nice not getting sued, or whatever.” Shiro raised a fine eyebrow at him and opened the door. It eased open all the way with a nudge of his knee and when he stood, Lance’s breath left him again. This man was dangerously gorgeous.  
  
  
“It was an interesting drive,” he remarked kindly, “and thank you, anyways.”  
  
  
“Oh. No problem.” That was it, then. End of that. Lance would return to his shitty job, shitty pay, and shitty early mornings. His lids drooped at the thought of it; when’d he get so _boring_ ? College Lance was the life of the party, remarkably tipsy all hours of the day, and a genius procrastinator.  
  
  
Now, out of school, the smell of pizza and booze brought him headaches.  
  
  
He watched with a sense of awe and grief when Shiro started walking away, vaguely of regretting not trying to hold up a conversation with him sooner, when the man spun fast on his heel and re-approached the window. Lance rolled it down. The hopeful look on his face and fidgeting fingers were so disarming that he Lance almost didn’t want to hear what he had to say.  
  
  
Almost.  
  
  
“I’m going to a meeting,” he explained briefly, “thirty minutes, an hour tops. After that, I have two hours before my first appointment with a client. If you, if you don’t mind waiting, then…” his eyes slid up the frame of his car, mouth pursed, “I’d like to take you to get coffee?”  
  
  
Oh man. Coffee was the way to his heart, through and through. The same heart that was suddenly beating erratically in his chest, making his hands sweat and mouth go agape. For the first few moments of his basking, he had no words. Then-  
  
  
“And I know this is completely out of the blue but I’d like to talk to you about a...job offer.”  
  
  
So definitely not a coffee date, then.  
  
  
“Okay.” Goddamnit.  
  
  
But Lance _should_ be overjoyed. Whatever Shiro had planned for him would probably be a million times better than what he had now, which was autopilot days and blurry mornings. Something where the days just kind of ran together into this big ball of what you could barely call living. Slap a sticker on it or something, damn.  
  
  
It was just so _dull_ .  
  
  
“Great! I’ll be out as soon as I can, Lance. You’re gonna love this.”  
  
  
He was loving it already. The view, that is. Slacks looked amazing on Shiro’s ass and he tried to focus on the sky or the gravel on the road or anything but his eyes kept gravitating in that same direction and he was only granted mercy when he disappeared into the building. The all-glass walls made it look very professional.  
  
  
Lance slumped into his seat. His fingers clumsily found the lever aligned with its side and he slid back until the headrest hit the backseat, eyes now scoping the ceiling of his car. It was very grey, had a few cigarette burns, and a small tear in the seam by the back left window. It was an old car, he reasoned, it made sense it looked like this.  
  
  
Didn’t make him feel any less poor, though.  
  
  
“I’m so fucked,” he groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. At least he could shield himself from the horrors of his own reality that way. He just felt so...out of place next to this building. Doctor's office or whatever, it was still very much out of his league. He drummed his fingers on his jeans and wondered why Shiro had taken in interest in him and not his really cool car. He didn’t seem worried about it or anything.  
  
  
Holy shit, what if he was rich enough to replace it like it was nothing?  
  
  
That would _really_ fuck Lance. Literally and figuratively. Frontside and backside. Upwards and backward. He spared another glance at the building and swallowed. Shiro probably had enough money to buy all of Lance’s organs or double that. Triple.  
  
  
This was a multimillion dollar company they were talking about, here. And if Shiro was qualified enough to get up in front of a camera and talk about everything they were doing, then he was probably qualified in general. Lance had no idea how company position ladders worked, but speaking to reporters and the general public had to count for something, right?  
  
  
Lance could faintly recall the news scrolling his full name across the bottom of the screen, white against black, and two people talking at once, interrupting each other. They weren’t very coordinated like the whole interview had already been very abrupt.  
  
  
He wanted to know why all of these little details were suddenly coming to him now.  
  
  
There was a knock on his window.  
  
  
His arm peeled away from his face like tape, his car was fucking _humid_ , and Shiro was peering at him from the other side of blotted glass. He hurriedly sat up, pulling the lever and seat clunking awkwardly against his back. When he rolled down the window, it was the first time he noticed Shiro was breathless. The little pink in his cheeks made Lance’s chest squeeze.  
  
  
“Meeting’s over,” he said cheerily, opening Lance’s door for him, “do you like walks? All Star Cafe is about five minutes away from here. They’ve got a great breakfast special if you’re hungry, too. I’m buying.” His generosity was appalling, but Lance wasn’t about to say no. When he slid out of his car, his stomach answered for him. Shiro laughed.  
  
  
And he was still trying to figure out how much time he’d lost; he was sure Shiro was only gone for ten minutes or so. But Lance was probably just tired. Maybe he fell asleep?  
  
  
“Yeah, okay. But I’m not gonna hold back just ‘cause I ruined your car, okay? I haven’t had a proper meal in _eons_ . I’m going to clean out your wallet if it’s the last thing I do, Shiro.”  
  
  
“No objections here. Think of it as a bribe for you to take the proposal I’m going to give you.” Lance’s fingers folded into his pockets and he fell into Shiro’s pace. He was definitely taller, ratty sneakers and all, but Shiro was _wider_ . And overall just a big ol’ piece of eye candy. If he didn’t already know he was looking, Lance might’ve been drooling.  
  
  
“Proposal?” The word sounded foreign falling out of his mouth like he’d just mispronounced an English word with his sad bilingual tongue and had offended every American citizen, but Shiro’s expression remained unchanged. Maybe he couldn’t sense his discomfort.  
  
  
He hoped it couldn’t.  
  
  
“Yeah. I’d like to give you an opportunity, Lance. Think of it as a gift for being honest with me. Falling asleep at the wheel is no easy thing to admit, y’know.”  
  
  
Lance sighed, “yeah."  
  


* * *

  
**  
** Lance was _so_ weak for the absurdly understanding professor with a Mary Poppin’s wallet. Sitting across from him was so different from sitting _next_ to him because he could see everything at this angle; the distracting curtain of eyelashes over steel grey eyes, analytically observing some article in the paper mentioning APO, the untouched eggs on his plate and lax grip on his fork while he dragged the prongs along the rim of his plate.  
  
  
There was also the steam from his coffee mug, barely able to fog the corner of the glasses he wore and had produced out of abso-fucking-lutely nowhere while he sat hunched over. He looked completely at home in a cafe environment. He just _belonged_.  
  
  
Lance, ordering practically everything on the menu and with every meal, a cup of coffee, felt like a parasite. He had enough caffeine in his system to _smell_ colors. Shiro’s black suit smelled like professionalism and espresso. He wondered how shameless he’d have to be to be able to tuck his nose into his collar and inhale the scent in its entirety; and if he’d uncover more.  
  
  
Did Shiro wear cologne? He didn’t really seem the type that would.  
  
  
The newspaper clutched in Shiro’s fingers fluttered as he pressed it into the table. His expression wasn’t as pinched as it’d been when an employee came over and handed it to him, mouthing the headline and looking reasonably worried. She’d scurried off as fast as she came, knowing that they weren’t quite ready for the bill. Lance, particularly.  
  
  
‘ _Altean Prosthetics and Orthotics scamming._ ’  
  
  
“It’s unforgivable,” he said, “what they’re trying to turn something profitable into.”  
  
  
Lance couldn’t agree more, even with a partial piece of bacon hanging out of his mouth, “they’ve got nothing better to do than slander a good name. It’s a classic media move, Shiro. We see it all the time,” he bit it in half, “you just gotta have the patience to prove them wrong.”  
  
  
“Insightful,” Shiro suddenly said, “is that on your resume? It should be.” Lance watched him lift his coffee to his lips, taking a thoughtful swallow, eyes never quite leaving Lance’s, “all the more reason why I should hire you.”  
  
  
“Hire me for _what_ ?” He nearly choked on his beloved bacon. Fuck. If he was ungraceful crashing into Shiro’s car, he surely was now, “you only met me thing morning. How do you know I’m competent enough for _anything_ you’re trying to offer?”  
  
  
Shiro’s eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled big, “Lance, I’d like you to continue being my chauffeur. My car is probably going to be repaired over the course of the next couple weeks and I need to get around.”  
  
  
“Ever heard of a taxi?” He was being snippy because he was nervous. Fuck.  
  
  
“I have, but I much prefer you,” Lance was absolutely choking now, “and I don’t want to pull that card, but you still very much owe me. Moreso now that I’ve bought you two dozen meals. But don’t worry,” he pulled a slip out of his breast pocket and slid it to Lance facedown. He didn’t want to touch it, but Shiro continued, “I’m not asking you to do it for free. I know you have a job, currently. I’d just like to offer you a better one. A permanent one. You’d gain a significant increase in your salary, Lance.”  
  
  
Timidly, Lance flipped the paper and was immediately thrown into a coughing fit.  
  
  
“Holy,” _cough_ , “fuck.” _Cough, cough_ . That was a lot of money. One paycheck was enough to actually, reliably pay his rent. And food, too, thank god. He crushed the paper in his fist and ignored his collapsing ribs, spinning surroundings, heightened senses.  
  
  
He was definitely freaking out, “yeah, okay.” and _definitely_ wasn’t saying no.  
  
  
“Great! Can you start today, then? Not that you haven’t already driven me, but, I have several other arrangements scheduled this afternoon.” And, okay, this was bizarre enough already- but Shiro really didn’t mind Lance’s car, did he? Not the fact that it was falling apart, had shitty breaks and sucked up gas like a vacuum cleaner.  
  
  
Was he being nice, not stating the obvious?  
  
  
“I don’t see the problem,” he was finally full, “just give me an address and I’ll take you wherever you need to go. Safety not guaranteed, but a _great_ conversational partner is,” he winked theatrically at Shiro across the table, who seemed wholly amused by Lance’s antics and not the least bit perturbed by the fact that he’d deliberately tried to drain his wallet, “this will be the best decision you’ve ever made.”  
  
  
Though Lance had been the fortunate one, dodging a bullet when he’d caused Shiro’s problem in the first place, something that wasn’t even remotely like doughy crust and chunky sauce sitting in his stomach, and soon to be significantly richer than he’d been since college. He didn’t know what gods were smiling upon him today, but he thanked them for Takashi Shirogane.  
  
  
Really, sincerely thanked them.  
  
  
Lance got up, “where are we going first? We still need to walk back to the car.” he watched Shiro hand their waitress money to pay for their meals and a hearty tip. Soon, he’d be walking around with money like that, too. A new wallet tucked in new jeans, matching a new jacket on a new Lance.  
  
  
The whole reality of it was leaving him elated. Being around Shiro now made him feel like he was _floating_ . Hopefully, this whole feeling of weightlessness wouldn’t lead to more crashing. Shiro followed him outside.  
  
  
“Back to the office, first. I’ll  have my schedule by then. There’s a... _lot_ going on today.”  
  
  
“Yikes. I better get to work driving you around, then,” he jingled his keys and walked with his hands in his sweatshirt. The morning was still annoyingly frigid, thought it was more around nine o’ clock now, “and are you sure that’s really all you need me to do? Paying me _that_ much for a couple car rides?”  
  
  
“I’m sure, Lance,” Shiro’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The corners of them didn’t lift endearingly like before, “I know exactly what I’m doing with you.” For some reason, the way he said it sent all kinds of tremors down his spine.  
  
  
Pleasant ones. Unpleasant ones. _Too_ pleasant ones.  
  
  
Attractive authoritative figures were rather scary, Lance noticed.

  
  
“Right. Well, I’ll try to be as reliable as I can. Hopefully, you won’t regret hiring me; then this whole fiasco will have been _so_ worth it.” He tried to sound enthusiastic when he said it. Really. But he was just so nervous now that this was a job- one mistake could rip this whole thing away from him.  
  
  
Then Lance would be left with nothing.  
  
  
“I’m counting on you, then.” They’d gotten to his car and he unlocked the doors. Shiro disappeared into the vehicle before Lance could clear his thoughts and he ushered him inside. He had his phone out and was texting someone, thumb flickering habitually over the touchscreen.  
  
  
“What about your schedule?” He asked, jamming his keys into the ignition. His car purred to life, “didn’t you need yours?”  
  
  
“I’m texting an associate of mine now. She’s going to email it to me, then we can go.”  
  
  
“Oh, alright.” Lance closed his fingers around the steering wheel, tapping his thumbs dangerously close to his horn, with his attention roaming from the semi-crowded streets to Shiro, who had his temple against the cool window as he refreshed his inbox. He had an unfairly charming pout jutting his lip, eyebrows drawn together in the most calm and collected furrow Lance had ever had the pleasure of witnessing, and the air around him stuttering as he released the softest of sighs.  
  
  
This was the most surreal morning Lance had lived. Far more surreal than hungover afternoon awakenings, comatose bodies littering any small apartment, corners sticky with vomit and the aftermath of a very out-of-control party. More than passing an exam or having enough money to buy a wholesome dinner. Shiro was the most peculiar and forgiving man that had ever waltzed into his life and the job offer meant he was going to _stay_ and keep throwing Lance’s routine into disarray.  
  
  
With the paycheck he was eventually getting, he really didn’t mind.  
  
  
Plus, Shiro was really hot.  
  
  
“Got it. Ready to go?” Shiro handed him his phone, schedule pulled up. It had dates ( _today_ ), times ( _soon_ ), and locations ( _far_ ).  
  
  
Lance wet his lips and input the first address into google maps. Sitting next to Shiro was doing awful things to his heart.  
  
  
“Ready as ever, boss.”

 

* * *

  
  
Lance collapsed into his bed with a tiny huff, sheets crinkling in his hold as he gathered as much blanket as he could between his arms and under his legs. He laid with his back arched over his pillows, popcorn ceiling ahead and bed no more than three inches above the ground. The double mattress really did wonders for his spine.  
  
  
Shiro took him out for coffee again, today. He downed four cups and they just...talked. It was the closest Lance had ever felt with someone paying money for his company; which wasn’t a common occurrence, mind you. They sat at bar stools and Lance bragged about taking his coffee black but nearly spitting the beverage all over the counter because it was too damn _hot_ . Shiro nursed him with captivating laughter and a hand between his shoulder blades.  
  
  
Lance was breathing harshly all over the place. Then he started laughing, too.  
  
  
“Great job,” he congratulated himself, feeling the phantom of a grin tickle his features, “you did it.” you made it out of whatever hole you decided to dig yourself into, Lance. Go you. All it took for you to wake up was to run into another _fucking_ car.  
  
  
Suddenly a muted version of Macklemore’s and Ryan Lewis’ _Downtown_ was vibrating in his back pocket. He lifted his hips, pulled it out, and peered disinterestedly at the caller ID.  
  
  
_Hunk_ . Suddenly Lance was wide awake. He pressed to answer.  
  
  
“Hey, buddy! You should come over. I have the means for food and I know you haven’t had dinner yet.” Too early. Lance fingered the bills he’d tucked behind his phone case; Shiro paid him for every minute of his time. He’d been adamant about it, ever since Lance started working for him a month ago.  
  
  
“Why?” Hunk sounded tired over the phone, “did you snag another pizza from work? They’re gonna call you out on that, y’know.”  
  
  
“No, no,” Lance felt himself glowing, “I quit that, Hunk. Papa John’s no longer has the liberty of tossing around the world's most handsome pizza boy. They lost that privilege after the whole Golden Gate insanity. Fuck them, honestly.”  
  
  
The academy _could_ party, though. Maybe a little too hard, after Lance returned home with a dozen mottled bruises and a new beer gut. He had to nurse a whole weeks worth of hangovers afterward and pledged never, ever to deliver thirty pizza boxes to one location ever again. It normally meant bad news to him, now.  
  
  
“...So you’re unemployed.” the statement pricked Lance, deeply, and he cleared his throat to waive the air of disappointment that suddenly accompanied him. It was the right thing to assume, though, knowing him. He rolled over onto his side and scuffed his cheek on his bare mattress. His sheets were still tangled around his legs.  
  
  
“No,” he said, “I got a new job. A much better one. You know that big company that opened up a few years back, APO? Long story short, I’ve been hired to help out one of the professors that work there. I’m doing something new and practical with my life- are you proud, yet?” The determined silence over the phone told Lance that he was skeptical, but the feeling dissolved when Hunk interrupted his contemplation with a yawn.  
  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Okay. What’re you helping him with?”  
  
  
“I’ll tell you when you come over. See you soon?”  
  
  
“See you soon.” _Click_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> combined the first three chapters because it all seemed like one BIG prologue to me??
> 
> all comments were super appreciated AND I'm gonna aim to make every chapter 5,000+ words!!!


	2. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Was it Keith?"

“You did _what_ .”  
  
  
Hunk swiveled around in Lance’s computer chair, fingers pausing on the wedding band he twisted nervously around his knuckle and jaw practically hitting the ground. He and Shay had been engaged since college, a star couple since day one, and probably were two of the most gracious people on campus.  
  
  
A lot of people always asked when they were going to get married; Lance would _pay_ to see the look on the faces of the other assholes who thought that they weren’t going to last.  
  
  
They also helped Lance out a lot before he snagged a job as a premium pizza boy, before he became a downer, and now all this reprimanding was totally giving him a head-splitting migraine.  
  
  
But deep down Lance knew Hunk was just trying to keep him from doing all the wrong things that seemed to be popping up as _eligible_ ideas in his head now.  
  
  
Running his new career into the ground due to his recklessness, for example.  
  
  
“Ran into his car. Demolished it. Gave it the whole dramatic crash and _shebang_ because I couldn’t keep my eyes peeled,” he drawled, “I was super apologetic though and he was all nice about it and even offered me a job. And as you can see, I took it. It was over a good cup of coffee and, like a million plates of toast and scrambled eggs. Look, if you’re worried about him blackmailing me or something-”  
  
  
“I’m worried more about _him_ than you, Lance. One of the most accomplished professors in California is riding in your death trap? Your brakes have been on the fritz for literal months- how is he not dead yet?” He had one bushy eyebrow raised at him, obviously skeptical, and Lance scoffed.  
  
  
“Okay, wow, her name is _Blue_ not death trap, but thanks a lot-”  
  
  
“I’m serious, man. _Please_ just don’t spend your money on anything yet. Make sure you don’t kill your boss, first. If you like this job enough, then at least put in the effort to _keep_ it. Maybe you can get Shiro to recommend you someplace that fixes stuff fast? That way you don’t miss driving him around, or whatever. The sooner the better really applies here, Lance.” And the unspoken words, _I don’t want to see you lose something great again_.  
  
  
Lance looked down into his lap, sitting cross-legged and curled his toes. Hunk was right, as usual. His lungs stressed at the thought of making another thoughtless mistake behind the wheel, _especially_ with Shiro with him.  
  
  
“Okay. I’ll call him.”  
  


* * *

  
  
It was a repurposed warehouse.  
  
  
A lot of the high beams supporting the structure were rusty, but sturdy. Nails the size of Lance’s forearm seemed to be drilled into every steel framework and surprisingly enough, didn’t look like they had been there in the first place. Shiro told him that the guy who owned the place was _handy_ , but reinforcing the entire building? Woah.  
  
  
Shiro’s car was further into the garage, overshadowed by the lack of open windows. The underside was lit up like a Christmas tree and Lance saw legs, so someone probably had a lamp under there. It’d been all but demeaned to a framework structure, hood and wrecked door removed, a coat of paint drying on exact replicas on the other side of the space. Lance was _about_ to wonder why it wasn’t done yet, but then he saw three more cars further in.  
  
  
All of them were in an impossibly worse condition, so he couldn’t really complain. Not yet.  
  
  
“Uh, hey?” he crouched beside the jeaned legs attached to Shiro’s car, “Earth to car guy? I’m kind of in a rush here, can I talk to you for a sec?” No reply. Lance inched closer, “excuse me? I’m kind of getting ignored right now, which isn’t great. Shiro said to talk to you about fixing shit?”  
  
  
Silence.  
  
  
Lance’s eyes narrowed into slits. Car guy had just gotten himself like, five strikes. _No bueno_ , car guy. He wrapped one hand around his ankle and braced the other on the side of the car. Grime smeared his palm but he firmly jerked his arm regardless and the legs were joined by a torso clad in a grease-ruined shirt, eyes that were a very complicated grey, almost purple, then a head surrounded by an unruly frame of dark hair.  
  
  
A very startled one. With earbuds in.  
  
  
Lance, feeling a little guilty, withdrew his fingers. He got punched in the face the instant after.  
  
  
“What the-” he pressed a hand over his quickly swelling nose, “ _fuck_ .”  
  
  
A surge of nausea hit him while his tongue sat battered and bitten-through against his gums, the taste was _so_ much worse than black coffee, and he indignantly spat a clot of blood next to car guy’s shoe, “I was just trying to get your attention, _Jesus_ .” He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and cautiously scooted back.  
  
  
Car guy seemed less furious now. Slightly irritated, maybe, and was Lance missing the regret he should be feeling over relentlessly socking some poor dude in the face or was it just him?  
  
  
Man, what a dick.  
  
  
Dickface, no, _Keith_ , Lance could see the name tag pinned to his shirt now that he was sitting up, removed his earbuds. Closer, he could hear the faint thrum of lyrics and instrumentals. Was that _Jackson Breit_ ? If his face wasn’t still throbbing, Keith might not have seemed so bad. It was a real damn shame.  
  
  
“What’d you say?” he asked, clearly not planning to apologize for busting Lance’s face.  
  
  
“I _said_ ,” Lance purposely raised his voice, as if the music barrier between them hadn’t even been removed, “I was just trying to get your attention. I was sitting here, talking to you, and you said jack shit. I decided to pull you out of the ass end of a car because this is _important_ .” Keith put one of the earbuds back in his ear, but didn’t retreat back beneath the car, which made Lance was strangely relieved.  
  
  
Keith also kept glancing at the dollop of red that sat dangerously close to his sneaker. He nodded his head.  
  
  
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”  
  
  
The gesture reminded him of Shiro.  
  
  
“I need new brakes. Now. My whole job kind of relies on the fact that I have a working car and it’s barely functioning at the moment and I’d rather _not_ kill Shiro.” Keith’s response was immediate, which probably meant he had his answer before the pleas even left Lance’s mouth. So much for Shiro’s recommendation. Instinctually, he braced for the worst.  
  
  
“Well, you’re going to have to wait in l- wait, Shiro?” Keith suddenly shifted, propping his shoulders on the sleek black surface behind him, “why the hell would you not having breaks kill Shiro?” Apparently having _Jackson Breit_ in common was one thing, but _Takashi Shirogane_ was another.  
  
  
His new awareness made him straighten and he shot back his reply as sharply as Keith had. Maybe with a little too much bite, but Lance was kind of pissed over the lacking sympathy he seemed to have for him and his shredded tongue.  
  
  
“I’m his chauffeur. Have been for over six weeks,” he bragged, plopping down and crossing his legs. The position was far more comfortable than crouching needlessly, “so can I get those new brakes of what? Of course I plan on paying, but still. It needs to be done really, really soon.”  
  
  
He watched Keith ponder it for a whole thirty seconds; in that time he scratched his chin with a hand that left an unmistakable streak of grime behind, had wiped that same one down on his frayed jeans, and had probably scoped the entire building a dozen times with his unsettlingly unique eyes.  
  
  
Lance was usually impatient, but he grit his teeth and waited it out because he _really_ needed this.  
  
  
He really hoped this guy was worth it.  
  
  
“Yeah, okay.” Then he deflated, convinced that his mental battle was over but, “on one condition.”  
  
  
Lance sighed, “and what’s your condition, car guy?” What could he say, the name stuck.  
  
  
“Keith,” he corrected, “and I want you to... _not_ tell Shiro that I was the one who punched you.” His gaze was dissecting the damage he’d done to Lance’s features; minimal swelling, but would be nursing a sore tongue for a long time to come. Again, he was impassive towards it. He seemed more worried about how _Shiro_ would react.  
  
  
Lance stared at him for an equally long time. He was internally hoping that his totally awesome superhuman abilities would kick in and he could microwave Keith’s head into exploding with laser vision. That would make his week, no, scratch that, his _life_ .  
  
  
But no such thing happened.  
  
  
“Hold on,” he shook his head and slid back, “you want me to lie to Shiro’s face? He’s my _boss_ , Keith.” And probably the best one he’d ever had, too. He really didn’t want to test his boundaries, and see what it’d take to get fired. That was the last thing he wanted.  
  
  
He _liked_ his job.  
  
  
“Only if he asks about it.”  
  
  
“Of course he will! Who wouldn’t wonder who wrecked such a pretty face?” Lance pointed it out incredulously and crossed his arms. Keith looked remarkably unimpressed. It spurred Lance to his feet, where he could look down on him and scuff the ground with the toe of his shoe, “okay, you may not care about, well, _anything_ , but my car is just outside,”  
  
  
Lance tossed the keys to Blue onto Keith’s knee, “you can bring her in yourself. How soon can you have it done?” Keith picked them up and raised his eyebrows at the coffee pot shaped keychain dangling from his ring. He tucked them into his back pocket.  
  
  
“Tomorrow.”  
  
  
Lance visibly blanched.  
  
  
“Oh...wow. That’s- that’s fast. Thanks?” He felt really uncomfortable thanking him while he sucked on a cut on the inside of his cheek, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Also, considering all the work he already had to do, it was kind of impressive? But it was probably because he just wanted Lance out of the way.  
  
  
Jerk.  
  
  
“Yeah, no problem.”  
  
  
“I’ll be back tomorrow, then.”  
  
  
Effectively forgetting that he had to walk home.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“And _that’s_ why I can’t drive you anywhere today. Sorry, Shiro.”  
  
  
He’d helpfully filled him in on the details pertaining the tragic state of Blue and skillfully left out his first impression of Keith. The encounter left an awful taste in his mouth, which was probably the film of blood that coated his tongue, but he wasn’t about to go into literals.  
  
  
Lance was back home and perched on his bed, hugging a pillow between his knees while he apologized profusely for making him miss out on whatever meetings he had, but then Shiro gently explained that he could get a co-worker to help him around, it was fine, no harm no foul.  
  
  
But his reassurances just made him more upset. He felt like it was Shiro that punched him in the face and not Keith, how easily he just... _replaced_ him. It lowkey made him wonder how important his job was and why he was getting paid so much to do it. He _had_ so many questions, but what he said next made him not want to know the answers to _any_ of them.  
  
  
“Can we facetime? I miss seeing you already.”  
  
  
Lance’s chest did something strange and fluttery. His face was warm.  
  
  
“Uh,” he droned dumbly, “sure.”  
  
  
Suddenly his phone was filled with Shiro’s clueless features, angled just so to indicate that his camera was between his knee and a hard place. Lance couldn’t see the faint, almost undetectable scar across his nose behind all the gritty pixels, but seeing him gave him butterflies regardless.  
  
  
He had it _bad_ and struggled hugely to suppress the swell of affection attacking his gut.  
  
  
He shuffled his phone into the space between the pillow and his leg, dazed, clearly not thinking about the consequences when he allowed Shiro to see the entirety of his face.  
  
  
The one he was supposed to be hiding.  
  
  
“Hi, Shiro.”  
  
  
“Hey! H- Oh my god. What happened to your face?!”  
  
  
Oh. Shit. Fuck. _Christ_ . Lance, he- he totally forgot. He reached up with his fingers and touched his purpling lip, straining under a falsely reassuring smile, and shifted his phone so his eyes and forehead were all Shiro could see.  
  
  
He could probably shift the topic if he tried hard enough, but he didn’t want to evade Shiro like that. Besides, the sooner he came up with false excuses the better.  
  
  
“I got the shit beat out of me,” what the hell, Lance, “but you should see the other guy. I totally creamed him,” He lied his way into a half-truth, fuck Keith for being A-okay, and tried not to stare at the worried line of Shiro’s mouth, “anyways, I- wait, what?” Shiro had sternly interrupted him and his face blurred while his phone moved and facetime abruptly ended. For a good ten seconds, all Lance could hear was rustling. He put his phone on speaker and leaned down towards his hilled knees to hear what he was saying and what he heard made his heart _stop_ .  
  
  
“I’m on my way, Lance.”  
  


* * *

  
  
The shit he was getting himself into was pulling him in deeper like he was being swallowed by the bog of a swamp, or into an angry midnight sea. Or by a really shit nightmare. A _shit_ mare, if you will.  
  
  
Lance cursed and hurled himself out of his bed, pausing long enough to pull it into what was hopefully a presentable state. While beating his pillows into submission, he received a text. From Shiro. Asking where he lived.  
  
  
He briefly considered not replying.  
  
  
But his fingers typed out the address fast and he grabbed a bag with one hand and surrounding garbage with the other. He furiously tried to pull his apartment together into a something he’d want to see Shiro to see, but it was hard with the chipped walls and bare state of, well, everything _else_ .  
  
  
Lance had a handful of things; a bed, a table, a desk, and a couple of chairs milling around here and there. The most well-stocked place was his kitchen, where his mother had practically donated to him the entirety of her cutlery when he said he was going out of state for college.  
  
  
On his own money, too. Money that became debt.  
  
  
Without the beer cans and pizza boxes, the house looked...empty. Certainly not lived in for sure, but Lance could stand Shiro seeing that. What he _really_ should have avoided letting Shiro see was his face. For the sake of keeping both Hunk and his good conscience off of his ass, he’d have to divert the blame from Keith to someone else.  
  
  
He was doing it for Blue. For Blue _and_ Shiro.  
  
  
And at the first knock, he slouched on his bed and counted exactly to ten so he wouldn’t seem overeager and like he was _waiting_ for it to happen before answering. The door pulled back and revealed a Shiro dressed in something disturbingly casual.  
  
  
He had on jeans instead of slacks, a _goddamn_ grey v-neck with a black jacket sporting a fur lined hood instead of a three piece suit, and wing-tip boots that were probably the closest thing you could compare to his usual attire.  
  
  
Lance could physically _feel_ his soul leaving his body.  
  
  
He also completely and utterly forgot that he was in a Nickelback t-shirt two sizes too big and his DC Batman boxers. Why, oh why did he ever, _ever_ think that things would go smoothly for once? Shiro hauled ass because Lance was dumb enough to get hit in the first place.  
  
  
“Hey,” his greeting sounded winded, but he stepped aside to let Shiro in regardless. He was carrying a grocery bag over his arm and Lance could very faintly make out the outline of several small, fist-sized boxes. Before he could ask what they were, he dumped them onto Lance’s naked bed.  
  
  
Disinfectant. Bandages. Numbing spray. A costco sized bottle of tylenol.  
  
  
“C’mere. Sit.” Shiro had already made a home on his bed, which Lance was totally fine with, and readily joined him. The second his ass hit the mattress, Shiro was steading his face with his chin and looking at places that were mockingly close to his eyes.  
  
  
He’d really get lost in Shiro’s, if that was the case.  
  
  
“Was it keith?” Shiro asked, opening the tiny boxes next to his thigh. He swabbed a piece of gauze into some hydrogen peroxide and Lance winced when it came into contact with his bruising nose. He didn’t even realize it’d been cut; what were Keith’s knuckles made out of, concrete?  
  
  
And _boy_ did Shiro catch on fast.  
  
  
“No,” he fibbed, breath hitching when Shiro pinched the bridge of his nose, “just some guy. You wouldn’t know him. Thanks for all this, by the way. A little overkill, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over how doting you are.” A remark Shiro humored with a huff of laughter, demanding fingers preventing his nose from dribbling while he pulled his skin together with a butterfly stitch, though he could already _taste_ blood coagulating at the back of his throat.  
  
  
He was very tempted to gag until Shiro pressed a wadded tissue to his mouth and said, “spit.”  
  
  
He obeyed, lips sore, and said nothing when he discarded the tissue next to him on the bed. Next, he clamped his palm over Lance’s eyes and sprayed something cool and sticky over his face. Lance sucked his lips in to avoid tasting it, and when he pulled his hand away he could already recognize that the residual burning of his skin had started dulling to a throb.  
  
  
“You’re a miracle worker,” Lance teased, “it’s like I was never hurt in the first place!”  
  
  
“That’s the point.” Shiro flicked his forehead, a renewed look of amusement never quite leaving his face. Lance recalled chastising himself for wanting real, _genuine_ eye contact and the same instinct came to him again, then. It dissipated quickly after some laughter, some banter, and Lance falling.  
  
  
Falling fast. Too fast. _Shit_ .  
  
  
It got worse when Shiro claimed he wasn’t leaving.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Lance didn’t have any hidden futons or couches for Shiro to crash on so they ended up sharing his twin-sized bed. Both of their legs were sandwiched into his pillows and his phone told him it was one in the morning, which he ended up checking after having a _hyper-realistic_ dream about holding Shiro’s hand while they both sipped pumpkin spice lattes.  
  
  
Everything in Lance ached at the memory of it.  
  
  
And why wasn’t it weird that he was sharing a bed with his boss? Was it because they were acquaintances first? Because Shiro treated him more like a friend than anything else?  
  
  
Lance sighed and rolled onto his stomach, mentally batting away the questions so he could focus on something else. There wasn’t really anything notable on his facebook feed, but he nearly hopped out of his skin at the arm that stretched over his back.  
  
  
The cool weight of it signaled that it was Shiro’s prosthetic arm, probably limply thrown around in his sleep, but discovered he was very _wrong_ when the joint hooked around him and Lance’s body was dragged into Shiro’s chest. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare breathe.  
  
  
The thumb of Shiro’s arm tenderly brushed the dip of his spine and really, Lance would want nothing more than to melt into his hold, but his mind was _screaming_ . And.  
  
  
Shiro was awake.  
  
  
His lidded eyes were smoldering silvery slits that seem to look right through Lance and simultaneously right at him. He was definitely still half asleep, but the arm around him told him that he wasn’t going anywhere, at least not anytime soon, and his voice was absolutely _wrecked_ as it had been dragged through hours of sleep without any actual rest.  
  
  
“Lance,” he murmured, “was it Keith?”  
  
  
Lance shakily inhaled, his will giving as Shiro’s thumb innocently circled his tailbone, “yeah.”  
  
  
“Why’d you lie?” Shiro’s face inched closer and he could feel his breath hot, fanning over his cheeks. Lance wanted to taste it.  
  
  
“To get my car fixed faster. He said he’d have it done by tomorrow if I didn’t rat him out, so…” both of his hands were plastered stiffly between them, fingers splayed over Shiro’s chest and thank fuck he was at least still wearing the v-neck, “I’m guessing he just didn’t want to get chewed out by you, which I think is absolutely ridiculous, but I was _inclined_ to agree.”  
  
  
The words ran out of him in one harsh breath.  
  
  
And he was trying really hard not to stare at the sluggish part of Shiro’s lips, prompted by the awe he felt over Lance’s sudden honesty, but also because his nose was turned partially into the pillows and he really couldn’t breathe out of it.  
  
  
“Okay. I won’t chew him out, then,” Lance felt a wave of relief, “but I expect you to be upfront with me about it if it happens again, okay?” There was an edge of possessiveness in his voice and Lance thought he was sorely mistaken in hearing it.  
  
  
Then the stark confusion on his face went unexpectedly answered by Shiro, where his shirt rode up his stomach and left his hip exposed to his nomad prosthetic, his hand easily able to surround Lance’s quickly chilling skin, intentionally or not dragging their hips together.  
  
  
He was close enough to count Shiro’s eyelashes and to feel his chest rise and fall with every drowsy exhalation of air.  
  
  
Were they cuddling? It felt like they were cuddling.  
  
  
And Lance helplessly curled his fingers into his t-shirt and was one mistake away from crossing that boundary he swore he wouldn’t cross. He could lose his job. Or worse, _Shiro_.  
  
  
But he was way too tired to concern himself with the semantics about what he was going to do. Go big or go home, he’d like to say. But he didn’t want to break the new, comfortable silence.  
  
  
Then he finally breached the employee-employer code.  
  
  
The angle was choppy at best, but Lance could still feel the phantom dryness of Shiro’s lips against his own, full and not quite conscious while they languidly maneuvered in return. He inhaled sharply at the hint of teeth, the tongue soothing over the wound in his mouth, all thoughts drowning in the subtle movement of his jaw as he kissed him.  
  
  
And Lance was brimming with the strangest sensation of contentment that reached his toes, shuddering violently through him, giving him the kind of enlightenment he assumed came with everyone’s last moments.  
  
  
But these somehow felt like his _first_ .  
  
  
He wanted it to last forever, or at least for the rest of his life, but suddenly his common sense rammed into him like a freight train and instead of pulling his hands were pushing, away and _away_ , cheeks bright red even in the darkness of his room.  
  
  
His palm had slammed his phone in the process and the numbers 2:33 am glared ominously into his face, concreting the fact that he had making out with shiro for well over an hour. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach laid a boulder of guilt and Lance really, really, _really_ needed to leave.  
  
  
He all but catapulted out of his bed, gasping as he struggled to pull on a pair of sweatpants and run towards the door at the same time. He tangled his legs and stumbled into the doorway, risking a glance over his shoulder while he wrenched the knob in his grasp and stepped into the entryway.  
  
  
He wished he hadn’t.  
  
  
Shiro was propped up on his elbows, staring at him with a glassy clarity in his eyes he’d long since awoken into. There were no words for him, just the stare, and Lance’s knees nearly buckled right then and there.  
  
  
His lips were red and swollen, still very kissable, the image of them sticking stubbornly to the front of his mind while he made an escape. Lance probably didn’t look any different, his mouth tingled in reminder, or was that the numbing spray Shiro had spritzed over his face before they left? He honestly couldn’t tell, but he honestly   
_did_ care.  
  
His lack of a reaction also deeply disturbed Lance, he wished that Shiro had said _something_ , but a part of him was glad that he didn’t have a reason to hang back. The other part was severely disappointed.  
  
  
Instead, he ran.  
  
  
He had no shoes on and his heels clipped the concrete but he pumped his legs until they quivered and his surroundings became intangible, out of focus, buildings lit up with obnoxiously bright lights and passing cars.  
  
  
He had the strongest urge to punch something, probably Keith’s face, but it was in a _good_ way.  
  
  
In a way that made him lightheaded and wobbly. Like he was suddenly drunk on Shiro despite being away from him, the effortless glide of his lips, and the comforting pressure of his fingers pressing gingerly into his back. Lance buried his face into his hands and crouched to the ground.  
  
  
All of this had come down on him because of the mistake that he’d made in the first place, and now he just had to make it worse by catching _feelings_ .  
  
  
Way to go, Lance. Way-to-fucking-go.  
  
  
He sighed shakily at himself, peeking between his fingers at the ground and tried not the choke on the night air.  
  
  
Stalks of green grew messily between the sidewalk cracks and there was a muggy brown shard of glass near his toes. From a beer bottle, he noted. Lance flicked it away with his finger and it clattered somewhere still close.  
  
  
He remembered how Shiro’s heart beat steadily under his fingertips, not faster nor slower, a grounding staccato that throbbed in time with his pounding head.  
  
  
All of this thinking and remembering was making him ill, but he brazenly wanted to cling to the portrait of a sleep mussed Shiro unintentionally easing his burdens with a kiss, probably with intentions far more pure than Lance’s, and his frustration burst off of his skin in a flash of insubstantial steam.  
  
  
Shiro kissed him _back_ .  
  
  
So this whole freaking out thing was overwhelmingly lame, but it was still making him _shake_ .  
  
  
He didn’t know what he was doing anymore; running off like that, kissing someone who obviously gave a damn about how he lived, and making up all these things to go along with how he initiated, ended it, was probably the only one into it and-  
  
  
Shiro. Kissed. Him. Back.  
  
  
Lance curled forward into he knocked his head against his knees when he reminded himself of it. His entire body was burning up, inside and out, particularly in places where Shiro had cradled him. It seemed like forever had passed since he’d toppled on the roadside, no longer with the mental strength to keep himself up. Soon enough he was back to speed, his thoughts catching up with his actions as he barely held himself together on the side of an unfamiliar road.  
  
  
A watery laugh broke the still silence that stretched on for minutes. There were no more cars.  
  
  
Lance was alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its not EXACTLY 5,000 words but.....


	3. Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you getting in?"

When he finally came around again some time later, four at the least, Shiro was nowhere to be seen. When he snaked into his bed, there was evidence of him being there ranging from the subtle indents in his cheap mattress and the bodily warmth he left behind.   
  
  
He must have just left.  
  
  
Lance pulled the sheets over his head and was intent on catching up on sleep, was too exhausted to battle the tiredness that dragged down his eyelids, but his phone was vibrating with the bass of _Downtown_ again and a flash of annoyance gave him the strength to slap his bed until he found his phone.  
  
  
He didn’t check the ID; just slid his index finger over the screen to answer.  
  
  
He served whoever was on the line with rustling sheets and eventually silence. He’d rolled over and tucked it between his shoulder and chin, voice elongated and impatient when he finally spoke.   
  
  
“What is it now?”  
  
  
“Hey,” The voice on the other end was familiar. It made his skin crawl, “it’s Keith.” And Lance couldn’t really muster the animosity he should have at being called before sunrise, despite the millions of reasons (getting punched by him, for one) he should be hanging up, and he stayed on the call to reply to him in a sleepy murmur.  
  
  
He didn’t have the energy for anger, right now.  
  
  
“I don’t even want to know how you got my number,” he started, already knowing it was Shiro, “but please tell me why you called and please may it be a good reason. I don’t think I can handle any more extremities right now.” He could practically see the question marks floating in a halo around Keith’s head then, but he surprised Lance by not asking any questions.  
  
  
“Your car. It’s done.”  
  
  
It was the worst news he’d ever received.  
  
  
He didn’t think he’d ever be ready to face Shiro again, let alone so soon, and it probably meant fuck all to whatever god he was praying to but Lance hoped he was making the right assumption when he thought he wasn’t fired. At least not yet.  
  
  
“Alright,” his throat felt tight and he kicked off his suddenly too-hot sheets, “I’m on my way.”  
  
  
Lance hung up first and abandoned his sanctioned bed, cursing his lack of a heater whilst he dragged his stinging toes through the carpet and searched his drawers for something presentable. He didn't think Nickelback would do any good for his already sour ties with Keith. What he did accept was a bleached shirt with a navy collar and sleeves, a dark green jacket with a grey hood, and a pair of jeans that had seen more years than good days.  
  
The clothes fit comfortably over his sinewy frame and he huffed an exaggerated sigh, grabbed a beanie, and tried to protect his ears from whatever wintry hell was going on outside when he stepped out. His phone and wallet had homes in his back pockets and Lance lumbered heavily down the street, not looking forward to anything that might occur in his day.  
  
  
Yesterday- this _morning_ , had been enough. Lance yawned.  
  
  
And like most four o' clock endeavors, his hike through the San Francisco streets was quiet, met with deserted streets, and people that milled around on awkward feet. They were either drunk, high, or so out of sleep that the exhaustion made him delirious. All were options were equally likely, and Lance supposed he was one of them today.  
  
  
So, so tired.  
  
  
He ground his heel into the foliage sprouting through the sidewalk's cavities, punted the pebbles that gathered like common litter, and ignored the psychotropic smoke that wafted heavily from thin alleyways, accompanied by quiet laughter and the sizzle of stomped ashes.  
  
  
He sheltered his Rudolph nose with his sleeve every time he passed one, they always frequented mid-way between his house and favorite cafe, but today he was walking to Keith's and that meant diverting from his usual path.  
  
  
He was not excited about what he might find.  
  
  
The shops he passed seemed to be tidy enough, despite being the downtown dirty side of the city, but Lance saw plenty of landmarks on his way to Keith's automobile overhaul warehouse, which he saw from a very clear distance due to his barn-like paint job.  
  
  
Maroon from a distance but cherry-red up close, vivid white stripes adorning the giant sliding doors and little black splatters of gasoline connecting it to the parking lot expanse stretched in front of it. The paint flaked and was clearly old, but it didn't affect the sheer quality of the service here; Lance walked in and saw Blue safe and sound, maybe even a little cleaner than before.  
  


"Hey, girl," he murmured as he approached, drained, dragging the flat of his hand up the waxed hood of his car. He stopped at the door and pressed his head into the sleek curve of the roof. Footsteps clicked slow behind him. His keys were shoved into his fingers.  
  


"Free of charge," Keith's voice told him and before Lance could lift his head and ask, "Shiro was here a few hours ago." And everything inside of him went cold. He was Antarctica, a mirror of ice, the 'burg that sunk the Titanic, but his chest was burning with the fire of a million suns just because his name was mentioned. The memory of his lips was still scorching his every nerve-ending.  
  


There was a breeze, but he didn't feel it.  
  


"How nice of you," he trilled, pushing away from Blue and jingling the keys lackadaisically in his grasp, "I'd expect this kind of generosity from Shiro. Did he pay for me or...?" either way, he'd find a way to make up for it, boss or not. Even if he felt obligated to fork over the cash for the repair of a vehicle he'd be riding in, it was still Lance's.  
  


Until Keith decided to say something so bizarre that it punched all of the oxygen out of his lungs, squeezed them dry, made him feel lightheaded like he'd just ran a straight mile.  
  


"What? No. I just don't feel like pulling money from someone who  _ works _ for my brother."  


_ Brother _ .  


Icicles pierced Lance's chest cavity and all of his innards are converted into glacial caverns. The air trembled around him.  
  


"Oh," suddenly the surrounding world had startled Lance with stunning simplicity; a lot of things that didn't make sense before had started to make sense now, "well. Thanks anyways. That's a load off of my paycheck, I guess." Of course, they were brothers.  _ Christ _ .  


"Don't mention it. Just take your car and go. Shiro wanted to talk to you by the way- in person, not over the phone. Did something,  _ er _ , happen?" He raised a quizzical brow. Lance could not get his keys in his car door fast enough.  


"Nothing," he answered briskly, "just some job stuff." He wrenched the door open and the way he scrambled inside was probably unbecoming; his knees hit the dash, his elbows hit the wheel, and his fingers were tremoring conscientiously at the thought of encountering Shiro.  
  


He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and peered up at Keith who stood poised a few paces away from his vehicle.  
  


"I'll be sure to recommend this place to my friends," he said with a sarcastic sincerity, thinking of Shay and Hunk nonetheless (no one else coming to mind), and clapping his shivering hand over the gear shift.   
  
  
He sunk his foot into the break, pushed into drive, and certainly did not stare at the satisfied curve of Keith's mouth, amplified by the grime sullying his upper lip, "get ready for an influx of customers."   
  
  
“Yeah, okay.”   
  
  
Yeah. Not so bad.  
  
  
He hit the gas and watched Keith’s frame shrink in his rearview mirror.   
  


* * *

  
  
Lance could really go for a drink. Several, actually. Preferably within the day since he’d be procrastinating at least that long, but whatever.   
  
  
And  _ technically _ it’d been a week since he’d last been productive, avoiding Shiro and all, but call it a coping period.   
  
  
(He was not coping.)  
  
  
And he thought it was honestly a miracle he’d survived thus far, but he could really only peg that on Shiro’s cordial nature and mental capacity to stand his presence. Why Shiro willingly kissed him, he still had no idea. Maybe it was because he had soft lips.   
  
  
Certainly not because he  _ liked _ Lance. No way. They just kissed that one time.   
  
  
But the harder he thought about it the more Lance’s brain was thrown into temporal overload, he was quite literally overheating, and it was a goddamn  _ shame _ he wasn’t running his mouth like he born for it because maybe then Shiro would be compelled to answer one of his many questions.   
  
  
But Shiro wasn’t even around to listen. Lance had pushed him away.  
  
  
Was  _ any _ decision he ever made a good one?  
  
  
Really, leave it to him to have those kinds of childish thoughts home alone, but they also served him with the kind of realization better left untouched. As much as he had enjoyed making Shiro’s lips shiny and red, he probably would also enjoy  _ holding his hand _ .   
  
  
The thought in itself made his palms sweat. Maybe he should just ask Shiro to take him out on a date.   
  
  
Of course, he could probably do that after he begged for his job back. He just had to get over his initial hesitation- he really couldn’t help his hovering finger across the call button, his thighs sliding nervously over his sheets, thumbnail caged between his teeth as he chewed it to a nub. This was a lot harder than he thought it would be.   
  
  
Maybe that’s why he put it off for so long because he knew it’d be absolute hell even hearing Shiro’s voice, but all good things must come to an end. He hit call.   
  
  
“Hello? Lance?” He sucked in a sharp at hearing his name from him, almost unable to withstand the tension that mounted his shoulders. Shiro must’ve heard him, “are you alright?”  
  
  
“Yeah,” he said over a gulp of stinging air, “just peachy. Listen, um, Shiro, I wanted to apologize-”  
  
  
“ _ Don’t _ .” And Lance honestly got chills, the timbre of his voice was clearly a command, and he had stuff a pillow in his lap to unravel whatever strung together words he was clearly trying to manage after hearing it. He wasn’t very successful.  
  
  
“Wha- I, I just- I’m so-”  
  
  
“Lance. Really, don’t. Can I see you at All Star in forty-five minutes?” There were other voices on Shiro’s end of the call, a pen scratching on paper, and clearly, he was otherwise occupied.   
  
  
Had he picked up solely picked up because he knew it was Lance? No, impossible.    
  
  
Was it?  
  
  
“Yeah,” he croaked dryly, digging his bitten-down nails into his shorts, “I’ll be there.”  
  
  
“Good. See you then.”  
  


* * *

  
  
All Star Cafe, serving him the luxuries of breakfast for lunch and saving him from hunger, but not from the preying stare of Shiro sitting crosswise from him. It was the kind of look where Lance  _ knew _ he was being dissected, every microscopic cell raw and exposed, performing the kind of roving movement saved for poems of chastity, or lack thereof it.   
  
  
He seemed very uninterested in the newspaper under his fist, served to him by one of the employees just like before.   
  
  
Lance swallowed. He probably shouldn’t have disappeared like that.  
  
  
“I’m paying this time,” he said quickly, his stomach no longer yearning to sate his appetite with the heap of eggs on his plate. He had one hand eclosing his mug of coffee, but he hadn’t taken a drink of it yet. It was quickly cooling, “so don’t...worry….about  _ that _ …..”  
  
  
His voice rapidly grew smaller, timid, because he knew exactly what this conversation would be about.  
  
  
_ Fired. Dismissed. I don’t want you in my company again.  
_   
  
Apparently, his naivety ran deeper than it though. Shiro’s steely voice, saying not quite what he expected, formed steel pegs in his bones and he was forced to ground himself and  _ focus  _ on their conversation. His mind, fleeting, tended to wander.   
  
  
“Lance,” Shiro started and he was shaking, his cup was shaking, his wrist was twisting to pull back and withdraw and  _ run  _ because he didn’t want to hear anything; not Shiro, not Keith, Blue, Hunk, or even himself, “I heard from Keith that your car was fixed. You can resume driving me tomorrow, correct?”   
  
  
And whatever thin line he was treading abruptly snapped.  
  
  
He was falling through, in disbelief, digits suddenly stilled but remaining curled around his topped off mug. Then there was a relief. Complete and  _ utter _ relief. His mouth broke into an uncontained grin.  
  
  
“Of course I can! What kind of chauffeur would I be if I couldn’t even manage that?” His heart was in his throat, diaphragm encased in the heat of unadulterated euphoria. The room spun. He let himself cling to the kindness caped over Shiro’s smile.  
  
  
“Still a good one. You’re a  _ spry _ driver, Lance. I enjoy riding with you.”   
  
  
_ Did the kissing even happen?  
_   
  
“Wait- shouldn’t you be somewhere by now? I know I’m not a time expert, but your afternoons are always packed,” he swung his feet under the table, indulging in his fidgeting habits by sliding the toe of his sneaker down the table leg and thinking about the hectic background noise crowding his call, “are you sure you have time to be hanging around me?”  
  
  
“I always have time to hang around you,” Shiro countered light-heartedly, folding his elbows across the table. At this point, the newspaper was well ignored, “besides, I wiped my schedule for today. It just didn’t feel right without you in the driver’s seat so I  _ thought _ ,” he twiddled his thumbs in an oddly endearing way and Lance openly stared, “we could just have a day to ourselves instead…?”  
  
  
This was a ways away from a simple not-coffee-date. Lance inhaled sharply through his nose.   
  
  
“I don’t see why not,” he chirped, cheeks flaring, forgetting that he was guilty of so many things, “what’d you have in mind?”   
  
  
Shiro’s eyes were a storm, beautiful and devastating at the same time, devouring Lance whole, “ _ lots _ of things.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Before he left Varadero Beach, there were a ton of things Lance had to do in order to appease his siblings.   
  
  
None of them could really compare to this.   
  
  
And it wasn’t that it was  _ Shiro _ he was trying to appease now, no, he was just stuck between two overwhelmingly opposing forces; ultimately enjoying himself or dying a very awful, very  _ sudden _ death.   
  
  
A shirtless Shiro was bad for his health. A shirtless,  _ wet _ shiro and Lance might as well already have one foot in the grave. The form fitting swim trunks didn’t help, hugging the dip of his navel but low enough to hint the ridges of a arresting v, water soaking his hair flat and rivulets of chlorine pooling in the hard expanse of his chest.   
  
  
His prosthetic limb was replaced with something lighter and thinner, not quite matching up with the girth below his elbow. It was an almost-translucent material. Plastic, maybe.   
  
  
He didn’t know why he suggested the pool, rented the whole damn building, and expected Lance to be breathing properly when all was said and done. He even took the liberty of buying him a pair of trunks, too, sky blue with imaginative waves outlined in white and skirting mid thigh.   
  
  
They were disarmingly  _ cute _ \- and Shiro’s black bottoms, accented with ashy undertones and a white drawstring were suited to his spectacularly sculpted thighs and brilliant form when he carved his way through the florescent blue and had them outdone in every single  _ conceivable _ way.   
  
  
He hadn’t even gotten in the pool yet and Lance was certain that he was drowning.   
  
  
“Are you getting in?”   
  
  
Shiro was sharing his lane, his elbows hoisted up on the lip of the pool. His soaked biceps flexed, water collecting seamlessly in the jutting lines of hard-earned muscle (Shiro probably came here a lot, with the effortless way he navigated the water), and waterfalls permeating harmoniously off of the curve of his back when he kicked off of the grainy floor to sit beside him. The entire movement in itself was  _ achingly _ graceful.  
  
  
“Yeah,” Lance shuddered as he emerged from the water, “I will in a sec.”  
  
  
He cupped some of the aqua in his hand, poured it over his still-dry shorts, and slipped into the water the moment after he said it. He was enveloped in a lukewarm light and he broke the surface humming, his entire body throbbing with the need of movement as he drifted listlessly on his back down the lane.   
  
  
Shiro hadn’t moved, but the heat of his gaze spurred Lance on.   
  
  
Maybe a distraction was what he needed. The thought convinced him to roll onto his stomach, nose stinging under the butterfly stitch, tilting his shoulders as they rotated in their sockets, and used the callouses of his hands to travel. He tucked his chin into his chest when he reached the opposite wall.   
  
  
His inertia made the spiral easy and he flipped, clamped the balls of his feet on the vertical surface, and locked his knees straight to propel forward and repeated the motion customarily, as if every fiber in his body was made for it. The current flushed out his loudest thoughts, but the obscure ones stubbornly remained and glued themselves to the innermost surfaces of his mind.   
  
  
Shiro’s hands. His lips. The bite of concrete on his naked feet. The tears that welled up in his eyes that so  _ desperately _ wanted to fall.   
  
  
He was hot, too hot, burning through the stream of bleached surf, the moisture molding to his migration and need to disperse all the energy he had dwelling inside of him as fast as humanly possible.  
  
  
All too soon he was beside Shiro again, asthmatic, ears ringing as he squinted at the celestial overhead lights that framed his broad shoulders. It was unfair how it illuminated the sliding droplets housed to his brawn,  _ criminal _ how they disappeared in crevices when he bent his torso and held out a hand for him to take.   
  
  
“That was fast,” Shiro said in wonder, not knowing that he was blinding Lance with his sheer refinement. The distraction hadn’t worked at all.   
  
  
“ _ Fuck _ .”    
  
Lance hoped Shiro’s balance was perfect like the rest of him and grabbed his shoulders, forced him to double forward as he crashed their mouths together. He remedied the rushed angle by standing high on his toes, still waist deep in the water, and scraping his nails hurriedly over his nape. He wanted him closer, touching him, absorbing all of the ardor that buzzed forever under his skin.  
  
  
He tasted salt and chlorine,  _ Shiro _ , fingers splaying over his hips and thumbs digging into the permanent curvature of his ribs as he was lifted,  _ Jesus fucking Christ _ , the extent of the pool that he’d collected in his shorts during his swim dumping unceremoniously over Shiro’s lap.  
  
  
Laughter rumbled pleasantly against his lips and Lance laughed too, lightheaded, lapping eagerly into Shiro’s mouth with two differently textured palms framing his hips. Harsh breaths fanned his jaw and Lance followed them, seeking, unable to fully grasp the rashness behind his actions.   
  
  
He needed him like he needed air and his limbs shook, rattled by disquiet, unsure of what to do with all of the explosive sensations laced with his heart.   
  
  
Who, Lance wondered,  _ Who _ legitimately falls for an accomplished professor so far out of his league he might as well exist in fucking space, sleeps in the same bed as his boss who is in fact that same fucking professor, sits in his lap while fucking drenched on the edge of a pool?  
  
  
He was such an idiot. He was so doomed. He was  _ head over heels _ .  
  
  
Lance pulled away only when he could no longer breathe, between the water and between Shiro, his entire body suddenly alight with the idea of bruising the sinfully  _ pretty _ curve of Shiro’s lips.    
  
  
But that-  _ that _ would have to wait.   
  
  
“Are we a...a thing?” He asked, jumping the gun, fingers still tangled viciously in the slicked back entirety of Shiro’s hair. The anxiety had already carved a petty little hole in his chest, made his eyes wide and curious, his lungs suddenly incapable of the hearty intakes of air he was clearly trying to inhale.   
  
  
“Are we?” Shiro mirrored him rhythmically, thumbing the waistband of Lance’s shorts, “I’d  _ like _ to be.”  
  
  
“Why didn’t you come after me, then?” When he ran away from this, the homely feeling of Shiro’s lips against his, and the familiar shape of his scalp beneath his fingers, “we could have been a thing  _ then _ .” He didn’t mean to sound  _ whiny _ but the whole thing was bothering him, especially so when he received a boorishly typical response.   
  
  
“You needed time,” Shiro’s voice sounded far away and he was particularly interested in Lance’s damp skin, “and I was also kind of nervous. Finicky. I actually did try to go to work the day you left, but I couldn’t really focus,” His chin tilted up, towards the overhead glare, “I couldn’t get you off my mind.”  
  
  
Lance felt like a fish. Baited, reeled, dangled and released. He sagged against Shiro’s chest, the wet slap of his cheek against his collarbone almost echoing in the near-empty pool room, and didn’t even  _ try _ to humor Shiro.  
  
  
“Still. You left me with way too much to think about.” And Shiro’s hand moved to his back, bracing Lance against him, unaffected by the way he was being straddled and clung to.   
  
  
“Sorry,” he said, kissing Lance’s temple, “I won’t do it again.”  
  
  
Ugh. He was such a  _ sap _ . Lance loved it.  
  
  
“Yeah, okay. You better not.”   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already given up on the 5,000 word mark. I get too excited about posting. oop


	4. A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m dating Lance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS IT'S BEEN A WHILE
> 
> hope u guys dig the new chap?? 
> 
> comments are super appreciated and all are read and I don't always reply bc I am an awkward shy bean but they make me the happiest person in the universe so thank u sm!!

Lance was expecting a date any day now, considering that they sat in the same car for several hours every day and neither of them were short of opportunities to ask. But...nothing. Not even the suggestion. Hell, he hadn’t even checked holding hands off of his bucket list. The most interaction those were getting were with the sticky leather of his wheel, rigid under his grasp when he took rough turns and twitched his wrists to stay between the lines.  
  
  
Lance reckoned that maybe the problem was that he should be asking first, but his mouth wouldn’t adhere to the words and something entirely different would end up tumbling from his mouth. Something silly, nothing like “let’s go on a date,” but more along the lines of, “did you know that the smell left behind after it rains is caused by a bacteria?” and Shiro would say, “actinomycetes.”  
  
  
It was so fucking bizarre. He should have more confidence about this.  
  
  
And to make matters worse, he couldn’t stop thinking about Shiro’s lips.  
  
  
“Farting helps reduce blood pressure,” he said while they spent half an hour trapped in traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge, “‘s good for your health and all that.” He was actually going to slit his own throat. Someone please, please shut him up.  
  
  
“You’re full of fun facts,” Shiro said and discreetly rolled down one of the windows after his comment, shooting him an understanding smile. God, no. Lance wanted to die, “do you think we’re going to be late?” The new opening in the car let the horns and shouting filter into the space and Lance shrugged one shoulder.  
  
  
“Totally-” Shiro’s expression prompted him to correct himself, “- _not_ .” Why did God give a grown man such powerful puppy dog eyes? At this rate, Lance would become a ‘yes’ man, a background character, the guy who forgets there’s the word ‘ _no_ ’. Cars started creeping forward and he eased his toe on to the gas pedal, “sorry. Going as fast as I can.” But clearly not fast enough. He’d heard Shiro go off about this event for literal weeks- some art exhibit? He was no artist, but they insisted on putting one of his prosthetics on display. They’d described the designs as ‘legendary’ and assured him nothing would be sold.  
  
  
Lance put on a brave face and pretended that the way Shiro practically glowed under the praise didn’t prick him with jealousy, but he was excited too, in his own way. Shiro’s enthusiasm rubbed off on him fast. They finally rolled off of the bridge and Siri spoke up again. He had to strain his ears through the city noise.  
  
  
“In 600 ft, turn left on-”  
  
  
“Thank you, Siri,” Lance sing-songed, but they were still inching forward at a snail’s pace. They had roughly five minutes before they would actually be deemed absent from the event and Lance grew more anxious with every passing second. Shiro seemed the complete opposite and he couldn’t tell if it was because he’d already given up on making it, or if he had that much faith in Lance. The second possibility made him itch with the desire to blurt everything that was really on his mind- nothing about rain, about farting, about reducing blood pressure, or about the way Shiro’s arms flexed when he shifted seamlessly in his seat. Certainly not. He was already relaying his thoughts before he really paid it much mind.   
  
“We should go on a date,” and quickly amended, “after this, I mean. On both of our free time.” This weekend, next weekend, every weekend. Shiro dictated his work hours, so.  
  
  
“This isn’t one?”  
  
  
Lance had to do a double take, “What?”  
  
  
“The art gallery. I invited you as my plus one- and as my date.”  
  
  
Oh. Lance felt like an idiot. He _was_ an idiot, but he didn’t think he was this much of one. He wished briefly that he’d thrown on something better than a pair of ratty jeans he’s owned since high school and a sweatshirt two sizes too big for his lanky frame. His sneakers were kept together with duct tape. Shiro was in a suit.  
  
  
Why were they dating again?  
  
  
“Of course,” he tried to play it cool, “I was just. Um. Maybe we could go out to dinner and a movie or something? A low-key kind of date- not that I’m _not_ excited about this date, but…” he flexed his fingers on the wheel and his engine continued to hum after he pulled to a reluctant stop. They’d arrived, “...now I feel kind of underdressed?”  
  
  
Shiro looked confused, “I told you to come as you are,” he said, “and you did. Yes, I’d love to see you in a suit, but I think my favorite version of you is the casual one,” he shifted as he unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the car. He carried his voice with him, “and I guess it makes me feel closer to you,” the words visibly rolling in his mouth as if he was tasting them, “is that bad?”  
  
  
_Hah_ . Bad was hitting the bong and kissing a college freshman afterward. Bad was taking a shower while hung over and vomiting down the drain. Bad was losing his common sense whenever he was within ten feet of Shiro and having no excuses for it.  
  
  
Lance was starting to think that the second, secret side of Shiro was just something he imagined.  
  
  
“No,” he reassured him quickly and followed him out of the car. The keys fit clumsily into his pocket, he was nervous for some reason, and all air was very suddenly punched from his lungs when Shiro hooked their arms that he was 110% sure his knees had buckled. Unsurprisingly, Shiro had him.  
  
  
They waltzed into the building and instead of a buzz, the crowd was a murmur. It was a plethora of elegantly dressed know-it-alls with cocked hips that talked in hushed tones about the pieces posted on the walls. The stands, displays for the statues, stood closer to the center of the room with black ropes securing a perimeter to keep people at a distance. He was so mesmerized by the scene, felt so out of place, that he didn’t even register someone’s approach.  
  
  
“Keith,” Shiro said, making Lance start a little, with him reaching over with the hand not resting on his arm and ruffling Keith’s hair. Lance thought it looked like a mullet, “I’m glad you can make it.” And he totally was not jealous of the neat creases of his suit, blood red tie, and slicked-back bangs. He looked more put together than Lance ever felt. He supposed he could say the same about Shiro, though.  
  
  
He licked the back of his teeth, remembering the tang of blood that had seeped into them, but, surprisingly, he wasn’t angry, “hey, Keith,” was the last time they talked them making amends? “I guess this isn’t _your_ first rodeo.” Keith didn’t even seem like the guy that owned suits. Just a lot of skinny jeans and ratty t-shirts and no brushes because there was no way he tamed his hair and it still looked like that regardless.  
  
  
“It is,” Keith shifted on his feet, and Lance was all-too-familiar with his uncomfortable body language. His cues made him seem closer to human, less like a barbarian that punched people for kicks, “but I knew what I was getting into and I didn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb,” Lance could feel the burn of his eyes scraping up his sloppy attire, “what the hell are you wearing?”  
  
  
Barbarian it is.  
  
  
“Everyday clothes,” he replied, a bit firmly, but he didn’t get riled up like he expected himself to. Shiro’s fingers squeezed his bicep and Lance switched his attention to the more prominent exhibits.  
  
  
“I didn’t give him a dress code,” Shiro said, “I wanted him to be comfortable on our first date.”  
  
  
Keith prickled like a disgruntled hedgehog.  
  
  
“A date,” his voice grated with a pitch of disbelief, “no way. You guys are-?”  
  
  
“Yeah,” Shiro smiled like he was the luckiest man on Earth, “I’m dating Lance.”  


* * *

  
  
Lance went home tired and with Shiro.  
  
  
Keith chewed Shiro a new one with Lance standing right there, going off about bad ideas and wrong choices and ‘first dates shouldn’t be so public’ like he knew things. Or had at least experienced them. Lance didn’t want to know.  
  
  
So he stopped Shiro near the doorway, helping him strip the outer layers of his suit. He draped them carefully over the rack beside his door, where he kept his favorite sweatshirt and a pair of muddy sneakers with the laces tied and draped over a hook. He let his fingers hover at every button and Shiro kissed him silly, bumped their noses, eventually had them both collapsing onto Lance’s twin bed where he could push his cold toes into Shiro’s calf.  
  
  
What? The man was a _furnace_ .    
  
  
And he was totally unapologetic about wearing nothing but boxers and an undershirt to sleep. It was the most endearing thing, the innocent way he groped Lance’s bony hips and drew them together until they were a mess of tangled limbs. He was half certain he was cuddling an octopus.  
  
  
“I’m sorry about today,” Lance didn’t get it, was too busy cradling Shiro’s head against his neck and combing his fingers through his hair, “Keith just worries sometimes. I don’t get out much, romantically.”  
  
  
Right. That. Lance kissed the crown of his head.  
  
  
“He just doesn’t know how good I am for you,” Lance said, “but he’ll come around eventually. Maybe I’ll bribe him with coffee, or something. Does he like coffee?” The bags under Keith’s eyes suggested that he needed the caffeine, but maybe he was more of an energy drink guy.  
  
  
Shiro, on the other hand, was definitely a coffee guy.  
  
  
And Lance was an alcohol guy. He could get drunk purely off of Shiro. But also coffee. He fucking loved coffee.  
  
  
Shiro’s laughter tickled his ear, “yeah, he likes coffee. But the complete opposite way that I like mine- if you skimp out on any sugar or creamer, he’ll probably spit in the cup and give it back to you,” he wrinkled his nose, “try whipped cream?”  
  
  
Lance made a mental note and tugged the blanket up Shiro’s shoulders, “a mountain of whip. Got it.” And his phone pinged. He peeled away from Shiro to extend towards the nightstand and he checked his notifications but had to squint at the screen to withstand the sudden brightness in the room. He sunk back into the blankets but frowned at his phone, unperturbed when Shiro glanced over to see what he was glaring so fiercely at.  
  
  
There was a soft smile on his lips that stabbed at Lance’s guts- they were brothers, after all. He really needed to drop his beef with him. He started with unlocking his screen and rolling onto his stomach. Shiro slung a lazy arm over his hips and nuzzled into his shoulder, humming at Lance’s unhurried reply.  
  
  
[Keith]:   
**when the hell did you guys start dating?** _  
_ _Seen at 8:58 pm ✓  
_ _  
_ _  
_ Lance rolled his eyes.  
  
  
[Lance]:   
**a month or so**   
_Seen at 9:00 pm ✓_   
  
  
[Lance]:   
**why cant you just ask shiro this stuff the next time you see him**   
_Seen at 9:00 pm ✓  
_   
  
[Lance]:   
**im in the middle of an epic cuddle sess rn u dick** **  
** _Seen at 9:01 pm ✓  
_   
  
Shiro’s chilled hand ran up his spine, a displeased murmur lolling from his mouth, and Lance huffed, “what- he totally is one, though!”  
  
  
[Keith]:   
**I don’t want details.**   
_Seen at 9:03 pm ✓  
_   
  
[Keith]:   
**I just want to make sure you don’t hurt him.**   
_Seen at 9:03 pm ✓  
_ _  
_ _  
_ More than he’s been hurt already, Lance thought distantly, despite not knowing a lick of Shiro’s actual past. He’s been too chicken to ask about his arm and it would just be plain shameful if he looked that shit up online. He was sure there some article about it somewhere- he was scarily popular, a star since his days in university. Lance had been a lot younger back then.  
  
  
[Lance]:   
**id rather kiss his dumb face than shiv him in his sleep, if that’s what ur wondering**   
_Seen at 9:05 pm ✓_ _  
_ _  
  
_ Shiro had given up on craning his neck and now had his cheek smushed into the pillow, nose just barely brushing Lance’s collarbone, soft puffs of breath indicating that he might have already fallen asleep. Lance, ever the gentleman, muted his phone.   
  
  
[Lance]:   
**but i really do like him, keith**   
_Seen at 9:09 pm ✓  
_   
  
[Lance]:   
**it might not be love yet but its damn sure close. he gives me butterflies and all that saucy jazz. he treats me to coffee and talks to me like a competent person, not like a kid whod been on the brink of unemployment with dust bunnies in every pocket and car thats old enough to be everyones great great grandmother** **  
** _Seen at 9:13 pm ✓_   
  
  
[Lance]:   
**he’s a good thing in my life rn**   
_Seen at 9:13 pm ✓  
_   
  
[Lance]:   
**and i wanna be good for him too**   
_Seen at 9:14 pm ✓  
_ _  
_ _  
_ He put his phone down, ran a hand over his face, cheeks flaming, and nearly hopped right out of his skin when Shiro’s still hand was spurred into action and he was crushed into his chest. His view was now all Shiro, just Shiro, _his_ Shiro, and he moved his hands from being pinned at his sides to cupping his jaw. He missed the buzz of the following texts.  
  
  
[Keith]:   
**okay.  good.  
**   
  
[Keith]:   
**goodnight, Lance.  
**   
  
“You scared me,” he admitted happily, “I thought you fell asleep.”  
  
  
“Not yet. I wanted to talk.”  
  
  
Lance bobbed his head, “okay, what about?”  
  
  
“You,” the statement made him happier than he’d like to admit, “I figure relationships are supposed to be slower than this and we’ll find out each other's interests later on, but-” his lazy fingers prodded Lance’s ribs, almost tickling him, “I want to hear you talk about yourself,” but Lance did that like, all the time-?  
  
  
“About the you before me.”  
  
  
Oh, “there’s not much to tell.”  
  
  
“I want to hear about it anyways.” Shiro’s fingers were soothing, gently coaxing him from over his shirt, his expression hard to see even up close. Lance sighed and pressed their foreheads together. He always gave in way, way too easy.  
  
  
“Well. I delivered meat lover’s pizza for a living-”  
  
  
“Before that.”  
  
  
“I still live in this dumbass apartment, but I bought it about-”  
  
  
“Before that.”  
  
  
Lance blinked, “How far back are we going here, Shiro?”  
  
  
“Think college days.”  
  
  
“Yikes, okay.” He immediately had flashbacks of late nights involving booze and party games, of dragging himself out of bed at the asscrack of dawn because he thought he could handle morning classes, and of coughing up his lungs after a bad hit. The hangovers and red-rimmed eyes were definitely the worse.  
  
  
At least he didn’t have smoker’s cough anymore.  
  
  
“Um, I was a communications major. The careers were pretty high-paying and I didn’t mind a bit of journalism,” he smacked his lips, “I really didn’t think much about my future back then. It was all me getting in and out of classes, digging spare change out of Blue’s glove box for a decent cup of coffee, and…” he almost didn’t want to admit it, “ _procrastinating_ . I was the last-minute student; God, did the lecturers hate me. I’m sure there wasn’t a single person I knew that was older than twenty that had me in their good graces,” his head slipped down, into Shiro’s shoulder, and he laughed. Nervous energy was making him too ashamed to look him in the eye any longer, “I was such a troublemaker. I didn’t take anything seriously.”  
  
  
These days, he’s trying to be better. He was more worried about the fact that Shiro hadn’t said anything yet.  
  
  
“I drank a lot. Smoked a lot. Skipped classes. My friend, Hunk, helped me cram like hell before finals. I don’t know where I’d be if he wasn’t there, saving my sorry ass,” he chuckled a little, “and he found this girl, Shay, and both of us started cleaning up our acts. Her brother was a smoker, too, and got COPD . He’s been in and out of the hospital since. We both quit because we didn’t want to put her through something like that again.  
  
  
It fucking sucked, yeah, but Shay deserved better than what we were- especially me. At least Hunk had the decency to sit through classes. Back then, I didn’t see the point. I was all ‘ _as long as I do the work it’s fine, right?_ ’ and it really wasn’t because now I know shit-all. The best job I could secure was Dominos, and then you. So I guess I should be thankful for what you’ve done, too. I’m not sure how much longer I would have lasted on autopilot.”  
  
  
“Lance.”  
  
  
“I was just going day by day without any direction. Struggling, sometimes, but it didn’t feel right leeching off of Shay and Hunk. They live together now, they’re engaged, but maybe I just didn’t like the idea of being a third wheel. Fuck, that’s petty. Sorry.”  
  
  
“Lance, it’s okay.”  
  
  
“ _Is_ it, though?” Shit, he hadn’t meant to go off. Maybe he should get himself a therapist to dump all this shit on, now that he had the money.  
  
  
On the other hand, Shiro deserved to know what he was getting into.  
  
  
“Shiro, what even happened to your arm?” he wanted to shove a knife down his own throat, “you never talk about it, you never told me, and I’m too fucking afraid to look it up without you knowing. I thought it’d make you think less of me- but I guess I should be over that now, since I kind of...admitted to pretty much everything. I care too much about what you think. It's killing me,”  
  
  
He closed his eyes and breathed. It was the first time he noticed that Shiro had gone completely rigid against him. His breaths were so small, so rapid, it was as if he wasn’t getting any air at all.  
  
  
“Talk to me, Shiro,” his voice was watery, “please,” then repeated his words back to him, “it’s okay.”  
  
  
The silence was deafening. Lance would rather rip off his ears than bask in it.  
  
  
Then, “ Epithelioid Sarcoma. It was an aggressive soft tissue type cancer that used to be centralized in my forearm. Doctors thought it was a cyst at first and left it alone,” Shiro’s voice rumbled stiffly beside his jaw, “but it got worse and the only option became amputation. Losing my arm was my best chance at survival and it took me five whole years until I was able to move properly again. I was a freshman in college. Prosthetics were the last thing on my mind, up until I spent my whole time at university designing my own.  
  
  
I wanted something perfect. I didn’t want a missing arm to hinder my research, or to hold back other professors when I finally graduated,” he was shaking so, so much. Lance rubbed his open palms up and down his arms, kissed his face, and backed off when Shiro opened his mouth again to let him finish, “I finished my design in my senior year. It was...amateur, at best, but I ended up getting scouted. Altean prosthetics and orthotics was created by me and the woman who considered what I’d done a ‘talent’. She offered me a partnership in founding a new company, five years ago. Ever heard of Allura Lione?”  
  
  
“Uh, yeah?” Lance’s hysterics had melted away into something softer and more sympathetic, he was too focused on Shiro’s sliding gaze, “she’s like, I don’t know, governor material or something. A fucking _brilliant_ doctor, according to all the articles. She also rocks lavender hair, face tattoos, and my world.”  
  
  
Shiro relaxed and raised his brow. Lance shrugged.  
  
  
“What? I did some research on your company and all that. Knowing Professor Lione was a founder wasn’t exactly encrypted material. You should introduce me to her someday,” his face was wet but his voice was steady, “and I’ll let you meet Shay and Hunk, too. Deal?”  
  
  
Shiro cupped his face and Lance wasn’t worried about him knowing anymore; in fact, now it was better with everything off of his chest. It still didn’t beat Shiro’s level 10 backstory, though.  
  
  
“Deal.”


	5. Means

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Shiro]:  
> LANCE NO.  
> Seen at 12:06 pm ✓

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAP IS KLANCE-CENTRIC like??? I wanted them to BOND in this fic, okay. And here they are!! doing it!!! #shiroprotectionsquad2k17

[Keith]:  
 **okay.  good.**  
 _Seen at 8:33 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Keith]:  
 **goodnight, Lance.** **  
** _Seen at 8:33 am ✓  
  
  
_ Lance had gotten to the texts moments after he’d woken up, still rubbing sleeping out of his eyes and tentatively removing Shiro’s arm from where it was curled around his middle. Outside of the blankets the rest of the room was cold and suppressed a shiver as he replied.   
  
  
[Lance]:  
 **morning, princess**  
 _Seen at 8:35 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **well**  
 _Seen at 8:35 am ✓  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **i guess shiro is more of the princess in this scenario because you keep treating him like a damsel in distress**  
 _Seen at 8:36 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Keith]:  
 **Lance, what the fuck.**  
 _Seen at 8:36 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **what are we not going to talk about you worrying about me genuinely hurting shiro**  
 _Seen at 8:37 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **just so you know, we had a very heart to heart convo last night**  
 _Seen at 8:37 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **i spilled some things, he spilled some things**  
 _Seen at 8:37 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Keith]:  
 **Did he tell you about the…?**  
 _Seen at 8:38 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **cancer? yeah**  
 _Seen at 8:38 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **everyone has their secrets i guess**  
 _Seen at 8:38 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **and what happened to him was shitty. he didn’t deserve that**  
 _Seen at 8:38 am ✓  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **if cancer had face, i would punch it**  
 _Seen at 8:39 am ✓  
  
  
_ Lance didn’t get much of a response after that, he was newly occupied with a roused Shiro. His bedhead was decidedly very adorable, especially when he tried to smooth it down with his fingers and smacked his lips. The silver tuft that usually hung over his eyes was combed back and Lance wanted to bury his fingers in it and return it to it’s originally mussed state.  
  
  
Wow, was he head over heels or what? His phone pinged with another message and Lance hugged Shiro to his side, ignoring the fact that he was trying so desperately to remain coherent. Lance would wholly ruin that if it meant a few more minutes of honest-to-god lazing around and generally not caring.   
  
  
[Keith]:  
 **Insightful.**  
 _Seen at 8:54 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Keith]:  
 **Are you really, honestly going to take care of him?**  
 _Seen at 8:58 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **well duh**  
 _Seen at 9:00 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:  
 **who do u think i am. i wrote caring for shiro 101!**  
 _Seen at 9:00 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Keith]:  
 **Of course you did.**  
 _Seen at 9:02 am ✓  
  
  
_ Lance and Shiro were up and about half an hour later. He was given the day off and a kiss at the door before Shiro called a taxi to make it to work. He felt a pang of guilt watching him go, but _damn_ did he love watching him leave.   
  
  
Anyways!   
  
  
Lance shrugged on his jacket and grabbed his keys. He’d waited until the taxi was down the street for parading out of his house and pulling his phone out simultaneously. He typed with one thumb, seamlessly, born for the role of multitasking- and apparently at barging suddenly into people’s schedules.   
  
  
[Lance]:  
 **you working?**  
 _Seen at 10:52 am ✓  
  
  
_ He clamored into Blue and cooed at her dashboard, a whoop of relief emptying his lungs when she started without preamble. He made note of the nearest Starbucks, checked the thickness of his (still very thin) wallet, and drove.   
  
  
[Keith]:  
 **Yeah, why?  
  
  
** Lance didn’t bother to check his phone until he was parked and entering said establishment. The barn-like structure was a refreshing sight, and the aroma of coffee beans (courtesy of his little errand) clung more to his nose than the permeating stench of oil. He had two cups in his hand, one paper and one plastic with dome lid, filled suspiciously high with lumps of whipped cream.   
  
Lance didn’t even need to step into the warehouse yet.  
  
  
“Is that coffee?” Keith emerged from the shadows looking remarkably nonplussed and still relatively clean, despite undoubtedly being at work for at least a few hours. The addled purse of his lips was something you’d want for pictures, but alas, Lance had left his phone in the car.   
  
  
“Why yes, yes it is,” Lance said, taking a sip from the paper cup, “come and get it, bat boy.”   
  
  
Keith came over and snatched the plastic cup, both eyebrows raised at him but not looking particularly hostile, “bat boy?  
  
  
“Yeah,” Lance waved an arm towards the warehouse, his feet carrying him towards the entrance with Keith close behind, “it’s dark and broody in here, like a cave. It’s a total _batcave_.”  
  
  
“Then why not batman?”   
  
  
“Copyright!” Lance declared, stepping over a cluttered toolbox to stand next to Shiro’s car. The finish made the accident seem like a fever dream, except that the driver’s door was still missing and propped up at a distance. He whistled, “what a beauty. What do you think Shiro’s gonna do with it now that he’s got me and Blue?” he sipped his coffee, crouched close to the floor to examine the inside of the vehicle.   
  
  
Gorgeous cars weren’t exactly part of Lance’s extensive knowledge bank, but he knew he would love to own something like this.  
  
  
“Don’t know,” Keith said and Lance looked at him and his chest did a. _Thing_. He had to try the hardest he had ever tried for anything in his life not to burst into a fit of giggles and eventual tears.  
  
  
“Keith,” he practically wheezed, seeing the dome lid discarded and the heaps of whipped cream scooped from the cup, “dude- you’ve, you’ve got a killer mustache. Wow. Teach me your ways.”   
  
  
Keith seemed confused at first, head tilted and half empty cup sitting daintily in his hand and a glob, a literal fucking glob, slid off of his upper lip and smacked the ground.  
  
  
Nope. Nope. _Nope_.  
  
Lance doubled over, head hitting the side of Shiro’s car as he viciously clutched his trembling stomach. Keith was furiously wiping his face off with his shirt and stared at the whipped cream as if it was incriminating. Lance. Was. Dying.   
  
  
“Wha-” he had trouble getting words out between his laughter, “what’d you even _do_ , man? Wrap your lips around the whole fucking cup and just. Toss it back? If so, props! Ha, _ha_ -” Keith was better than a bat. A puppy, maybe. You know the one’s with the big ears that sometimes get turned inside out when they flop their heads just right? Those ones.  
  
  
But in this case, the ears were just. Shitloads of whipped cream.   
  
  
He regretted not bringing his phone so, so much.   
  
  
“I was just-” Keith was flushed red, down to his neck, and had put the cup somewhere out of Lance’s watering view, “I don’t like straws?” The way he phrased it like a question was making it worse, but not nearly as funny as the initial incident.  
  
  
Keith had looked like an impromptu mall Santa Claus complete with red, white, and black accents. Lance figured he didn’t think he looked good in any other colors, since he had the exact same color scheme the last few times they met, too.   
  
  
“You don’t,” he steadied his starving lungs with a harsh intake of air, “like straws. Right. How could I have forgotten.” He was sitting on the concrete floor now, legs extended in front of him and a very familiar red stain inking the spot next to his left foot. He stubbornly ignored it and snatched his cup back up to take some calming sips.  
  
  
“Shut up,” Keith droned. His arms had made a place for themselves folded over his front, where Lance could clearly see (thanks to the lack of sleeves as well) long, angry-looking scars running up his forearms. Their lumpy texture suggested burns, and the nature of his work suggested the perpetrator was a car.   
  
  
Give Lance a gold medal- his perceptiveness was on point today.   
  
  
Lance’s sneaker scuffed the concrete when he climbed back onto his feet, “alright, alright. Chill. I didn’t come over to make fun of you- my visit has a completely legitimate reason and you should totally hear me out,” a thoughtful pause and a sip of his drink later, “and I bribed you with overly sweetened coffee.”  
  
  
“Why overly sweetened?” Keith snuffed, nose wrinkled in his general direction, “don’t tell me you drink yours,” he seemed to struggle with the word, Lance _swore_ he saw his forehead sweat, “ _black_.” A full body shiver ran through him. Lance never pegged him as a dramatic; maybe they did have something in common after all.   
  
  
“Of course not,” Lance huffed, “I’m classy, not dead.”  
  
  
Keith looked a little relieved, but now he kept casting accusatory glances at his paper cup, “what _are_ you drinking, then?”   
  
  
Lance grinned, “hot chocolate!”  
 _  
_

* * *

_   
_ [Lance]:   
**what does keith usually have for lunch**   
_ Seen at 11:58 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Shiro]:   
**Ramen noodles. Why?**   
_ Seen at 11:59 am ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:   
**im buying my way into his heart**   
_ Seen at 12:00 pm   
  
  
_ [Shiro]:   
**Did the coffee not work?**   
_ Seen at 12:01 pm ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:   
**it did, it did, but i need to sweeten the pot if he’s going to want to answer all the saucy questions i want to ask**   
_ Seen at 12:04 pm ✓  
  
  
_ [Shiro]:   
**Saucy? Elaborate, please.**   
_ Seen at 12:05 pm ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:   
**im delving into all of your deepest, darkest secrets, babe**   
_ Seen at 12:05 pm ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:   
**im going to find your baby pictures even if it kills me**   
_ Seen at 12:06 pm ✓  
  
  
_ [Shiro]:   
**LANCE NO.**   
_ Seen at 12:06 pm ✓  
  
  
_ [Lance]:   
**lance yes**   
_ Seen at 12:06 pm ✓  
  
_

* * *

_   
_ And that was how Lance ended up in Keith’s apartment, balancing a cup of noodles on his knee and absently shooting Shiro some evasive texts. He put his phone face down on the dining room table after ‘ _ lance yes _ ’ and nudged Keith’s calf under the table.  
  
  
“So,” they obviously didn’t live together. It was a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment. The table could surely house two people, himself and Keith being proof, but there was little evidence that anyone lived there. It kind of reminded Lance of his own house, “Takashi Shirogane. Man of My Dreams. I want his most embarrassing childhood stories, ASAP.”  
  
  
Keith grunted and fanned a lazy hand over his noodles when he peeled off the paper lid, “jumping straight to the point, aren’t you?” he picked up his fork, “most of the childhood stories I know are mostly about me, you know. So are Shiro’s,” and now his mouth was full, “you should ask our mom about this kind of stuff- she knows loads of embarrassing stuff Shiro was up to.”  
  
  
Lance followed suit and twirled the prongs of his fork in the cup, “parents! Right. Forgot about those,” his other hand, holding the cup in place, tightened imperceptibly around the styrofoam, “um. Before I tread that territory, mind telling me about them? Just a little bit?”   
  
  
“Well,” Keith sat back with his ramen, showing no signs of having noticed Lance’s blatant discomfort, and drawled when he spoke, “par _ ent _ . It’s just our mom and us- we lost our dad when we were both pretty young, but I know for a fact that Shiro remembers more about him than I do. I think he was an architect? And Shiro tried to follow his steps at some point before finding a,” he used air quotes, despite his hands being full, “ ‘ _ true calling _ ’. But I kind of think that he may just be afraid to admit that the missing arm may have put a wrench in his plans,” Keith grimaced, “I don’t mean to sound so blunt, I just,” he rubbed his hand over his eyes, looking clearly frustrated with himself. Lance was learning a lot today- one thing being that Keith was much more of an emotional person than he initially gave him credit for, “I want him to ask for  _ help _ , sometimes. And he never does.”  
  
  
“I want to help him,” Lance blurted, his noodles lukewarm. He was forgetting to eat, more focused on the general sincerity of Keith’s statement, “I kind of think I am, but- but not majorly. Not like I want to.” And Keith nodded sagely.  
  
  
“Yeah, I know,” he put the styrofoam to his lips and sipped the broth, he was one of those people, and put it back on the table, fork and all. He was finished, “our mom is... nice. A little pushy sometimes, but we’ve kind of pushed her to the brink as kids already. I imagine being a single parent is hell,” Lance hmm’d and set his ramen aside too, “especially when I refused to behave. Shiro liked to tease me a lot growing up, too,” Keith picked distractedly at his nails and a smile pulled his lips and Lance was speechless, “he painted my nails for me and taught me how to do eyeliner. He showed me how to fix cars and was there for me when I was clearly freaking out about the cancer- thinking he was going to  _ die _ or something.  
  
  
He’s always, always looking out for me. I never get the chance to do the same for him, you know?” Lance knew. He knew it  _ so hard _ . He’d have to give everyone hugs back home the next time he visited, he thought, recalling all the times they just  _ accepted _ him without a second thought.   
  
  
The fact that he was bisexual.  
  
  
The fact that he was moving to out of state for college.    
  
  
The fact that he had been failing academically for a long, long time- but  _ still _ managed to grab a graduation day.    
  
  
He was getting a little teary-eyed just thinking about it, “we’ll take care of Shiro,” he voiced surely, “both of us. Together.”   
  
  
Keith swallowed loudly, voice wet, “yeah. Yeah, we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of you are super sweet and patient and ily??? i promised myself i'd pump out a chapter before the end of winter break so HERE IT IS


	6. To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want to rob you of your chance to peruse me around in your favorite vehicle, Lance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter!! Not sure what I'm doing anymore!! At this point this is just a really-self indulgent fic but hmu if there's anything particular you want to happen?? I haven't really done myself the service of coming up with an ACTUAL plotline. Just shameless angst and fluff rip

“This needs to change,” and wow, Shiro really had a way with words. Lance was perfectly comfortable with his head tucked in the crook of his arm and leg thrown over his hip and hands curled towards his chest and sheets crumpled at their feet and Shiro wanted to _move?_ “I can’t feel my arm.”

  
  
Lance lifted his head. He only had one of those and doesn’t want to cause any integral damage to the remaining.

  
  
“Fine,” he huffed, not bothering to hide his displeasure, and might as well have peeled his sweaty top half from his mattress. The light barely filtered through his windows, in dire need of being wiped down, and he was pretty sure that it was sometime during early afternoon. He and Shiro had slept in.

  
  
Again.

  
  
He stretched and yawned, scoping his surroundings, taking in the clutter that would return only a few days after cleaning. At least it usually took his mind off of things, but it’s less-than-homely state made a sudden thought pop into his mind. Shiro’s chest rumbled with a yawn (deeper, rougher) nearly identical to his own.

  
  
He’d never been to Shiro’s house.

  
  
“Takashi,” he said in wonder, scrubbing the heel of his palm into his eye socket in hopes of gaining some more awareness, “where do you even live?”

  
  
“Here,” came a slurred, unthinking response. Lance thumped his arm.

  
  
“Don’t be dumb. You can’t live here. That’d totally betray you’re stupidly amazing reputation of being handsome, smart, _and_ rich. You’re the whole package- plus, this place is a dump,” he warmly curled over Shiro, who shifted from aligned with the wall to aligned with Lance, a feat he could only just barely achieve while still laying down, “and for some reason, you still sleep here. You’re full of the unfathomable. It kills the man.”

  
  
“No dying,” he nudged Lance up and sat on his own, posture deceivingly slouched so he seemed closer to Lance’s height than the giant he usually was. His mouth parted in a second yawn, “what’s for breakfast?”

  
  
“Bagels in the fridge,” Lance said helpfully, and twisted his legs into the blankets once more. He wasn’t quite ready to leave the heat that Shiro and his bed provided. He’d be an idiot to not take advantage of every second he could. Shiro hummed and started to get up, but was interrupted when there was a ping at the nightstand and Lance leaned in his path to grab at it.

  
  
He stared at the screen of his phone, “oh,” Lance said in wonder, “change of plans.”

  
  
He hopped out of the bed with renewed vigor and pulled a pair of day-old jeans over his hips. Shiro lay slouched on the bed and watched him dress, amused when his phone started playing some obnoxiously familiar music and Lance would idly sway his hips to the tune. He sung along to most of the lyrics, offered a hand when he at least had his jacket on, and finally Shiro had to ask.

  
  
“So, where are we going?”

  
  
Lance flashed him a too-bright smile and handed Shiro a t-shirt (one he knew that fit because it initially belonged to him, Lance may or may not have borrowed it a couple dozen times to sleep in and that’s why it had been safely tucked away in his drawers in the first place).

  
  
“To Lunch with Hunk.”

 

* * *

  
  
“Wow. You’re even more intimidating in person,” Hunk spoke between mouthfuls of soggy pancakes, was officially eyeing Shiro with a hint of suspicion, and Lance jumped into the conversation before he could make any wild accusations like he had when he first confessed that he no longer had a job.

  
“I thought the same thing!”

  
  
“You didn’t even recognize him when you first met.”

 

“So?”

  
  
“ _So_ , you wouldn’t know intimidating if it hit you in the face. You probably thought Shiro was some rich guy that was too valuable to share you space, and you were the poor kid who was unfortunate enough to cross paths with his car. Literally. How’s that going, by the way? I know Lance got his car fixed, but isn’t yours still in the workshop or something?”

  
  
Shiro was chuckling behind his hand, “it’s been delivered to my driveway, actually. I’d use it, but I’ve officially hired Lance as my chauffeur and he seems rather attached to Blue.”

  
  
“Blue-?!” Hunk sputtered, and dropped his fork with a noisy clank. He pointed an accusing finger at Lance, “now you’ve got him calling your car by her _name_? I can’t believe it. I’m completely and utterly baffled,” his face fell flat and he extended an arm over the booth table. Shiro hesitated a second before taking it and Hunk deadpanned, “I approve of you.”

  
  
“Hunk!”

  
  
“What? I do. If he’s nearly as crazy enough about your car as you are, then you should definitely keep him around. There aren’t enough people who name their rides these days. Oh yellow, what would I do without you?”

  
  
“Yellow?” Shiro asked. Lance grinned.

  
  
“His pickup truck. It’s in the parking lot there, look,” he gestured out of the window next to their seats and sure enough, behind Blue and facing them was a rustic yellow vehicle with a plethora of miscellaneous object packed into the trunk. It seemed to be filled to the brim with knick knacks and various car parts. Shiro hummed in appreciation.

  
  
“So, do we _all_ name our cars after colors?”

 

* * *

 

Lance didn’t know what he was expecting, but Hunk and Shiro got along better than he could have ever hoped. There was banter, food, and good conversations all around. Things finally got rolling after Hunk’s mention of Blue, and Lance learned that Shiro’s intentioned with his car, Black, were unclear to even himself.

 

_“I don’t want to rob you of your chance to peruse me around in your favorite vehicle, Lance.”_

 

It was so considerate that it was dumb and Lance wholeheartedly loved him for it.

 

They drove back to Lance’s place and Shiro started setting up on the couch, saying something about a movie he’d enjoy. He thoughtlessly mentioned making popcorn and while heading into the kitchen and raiding his own pantry, he brought himself to a skidding halt.

 

What. _What_.

 

Love?

 

He needed to seriously backpedal. He ripped open a box of buttery popcorn and picked at the wrapper when he crossed the room to the microwave. He was wracking his brain for all the plausible reasons he should be thinking of that word _now_ , and he wasn’t surprised by the dozens of things that came to mind.

 

Shiro was considerate. Strong. Offered him a job, a second chance at life, and had confided his memories of the weakest moments of his life to Lance. He cuddled, didn’t snore, patched him up when he got hurt, and didn’t get upset at the little fibs he was forced to tell. He dealt with his humor, cheesy flirting, cocky attitude, and awful wardrobe. He was also, on the side, a Bonafide Sugar Daddy.

 

In short, Shiro was a Godsend. 

 

And Lance was falling harder every second, over and over again, clinging to all the kinds of different traits he fell _for_.

 

The microwave dinged and Lance juggled the steaming bag while wrestling a bowl out of his cabinet. He poured the kernels into it and joined Shiro in the living room, chest warming at the sight of all the lights off, his face only illuminated by the tv screen, and a blanket pulled tightly around the broadness of his shoulders. Lance sidled across the cushions to lean up comfortably against his side, bowl resting on his thigh, and tucked his nose into Shiro jaw. The movie started, and Lance could barely focus on the plot.

 

He came to when the credits were rolling and wasn’t 100% if he’d fallen asleep, or had just spaced out. His mind didn’t carry its usual grogginess out of a nap, and Lance didn’t bother to detach himself from Shiro’s side. His breath evened into a drowsy lull and he had yet to discern if he was even the only one awake, but the warmth covering his shoulders indicated that he had drifted off first, since he didn’t remember the quilt being placed.

 

He felt blanketed by the show of affection and his toes curled.

 

It was impossible not to wonder when he would get used to the small, domestic things integrated into their routine. Aside from sharing the same car (which ended up being most hours of the day) they shared the same bed, too. Lance’s bed. Every once in awhile Shiro would stay home and leave a cold, body-shaped dent in his mattress that he tended to whine about the next day. He came back with little things; extra clothes, toiletries, dishes, and ‘leftovers’ when he knew for a fact that they ate together most nights. He was never annoyed by it, just inherently curious, and he was skimming his nose along Shiro’s neck when the reason hit him right in the face.

 

Holy shit, _was Shiro slowly moving in_?

 

Lance fought back a noise of alarm, but wasn’t _actually_ concerned. Not really. Constantly having Shiro around made him pleasantly fuzzy inside, maybe a little sad, because when he recalled the night they discussed their less-than-favorable circumstances, it reminded him about all the things Shiro kept from him still.

 

It was, after all, _Keith_ that admitted to him that they were even brothers in the first place. Nevermind that it had him questioning the rest of Shiro’s relationships, but it made Keith’s caution towards Lance all that more palpable- and a little less overwhelming after their brief heart-to-heart. Lance made a conscious note to bring him coffee again soon, and his phone, if only to catch a glimpse (and photo) of his whip-stache again.

 

Maybe he’d hang it up on his wall.

 

The credits came to an abrupt end and Lance outstretched his legs to get his blood flowing again, his torso too comfortable for him to offer the same treatment, and lids already drooping. The living room was still dark and he clung to the sound of Shiro’s steady breathing, his fingers limp in his lap, and he turned his head to press his mouth behind his ear before he could fathom what he was doing.

 

“I love you.”

 

Lashes fluttered, and a lethargic gaze met his.

 

“Good morning to you, too.”

  
_Shit_ . 


End file.
